


Breathe My Rust

by hunterfics



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Phandom Big Bang, Violence, Zombies, existential muttering, past offscreen character death for backstory reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunterfics/pseuds/hunterfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yeah," Dan says, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a pathetic imitation of a smile. "Can't get rid of me that fast, mate."</p><p>"I'm glad," Phil whispers, and those two words are heavy and dangerous and Dan thinks that if the sun were up they wouldn't be having this conversation at all. He definitely wouldn't be tempted to move closer, but it's dark and he's lonely and he's only known Phil for two and a half days but he feels safe with him. And he's drawn to this tired boy whose eyes are brighter than the sky is most days, drawn like metal to a magnet, and he can't pull away, even though he wants to.</p><p>Or, the one where Phil rescues Dan in a zombie apocalypse and they accidentally fall in love</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe My Rust

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many people I need to thank for helping me through the process of writing this monster: Whitney, Michelle, Gillian, and Niamh, for being one helluva cheerleading squad; Courtney, for convincing me to sign up for the Big Bang in the first place; Alex, for forever believing in me even (and especially) when I didn't believe in myself; Gina, Courtney, Bethany, Michelle, and Alex, for being the best Big Bang mods the phandom could ever dream of; Zelda, for betaing this mess with endless grace and patience; and Kit, for dealing with my bullshit and making me cry with her art. I love you all a lot. Also thank you to everyone reading this, I really hope you like it as much as I do.

The sun is startling.

It's bright and harsh against Dan's eyes, even with his hand held up as a visor against the glare, and it's making his skin prickle with sweat. Dan thinks it must be late summer now, end of August maybe, or early September. Not that it matters, really, which specific date it is. The days blur together now, a smear of frantic scrabbling for survival. That's all there is, really. Survival and skewed morals and the last desperate strings of hope, or dreams, or something, that somehow keep him going.

It's the kind of day that makes him incredibly nostalgic for what used to be. Not even two years ago he was 21 years old and just out of his last year of uni for theatre production, with an incredible internship set up to begin at the West End and two wildly affectionate best friends at his side. Not even two years ago he was worrying about the rest of his life, about a career and rent and everything else that comes with adulthood.

Now he can barely imagine (or even comprehend) seeing tomorrow, much less the life that may or may not await him years from now.

It's 2014 and the world has been dead for almost two years.

No one's really sure how it started, whether it was drugs or biological warfare or a particularly violent strain of flu, but The Pandemic took Asia by storm. Then Africa, then Europe, and by the time the first infections were recorded in the UK, all communication with North and South America had been cut off. For all Dan knows, he's the only person left alive on the planet. Him and Chris. So long as Chris hasn't been, like, eaten or murdered or something in the last half hour. Which is, unfortunately, a distinct possibility.

Cat should be with them too, but she'd been run down in an attack just a few months after everything went to shit (not even fucking zombies, and Dan hates himself every day for it, for not keeping a close enough watch on the perimeters of their tiny hideaway and for letting those assholes creep up on them) and Dan had watched her get shot down right in front of his eyes.

She'd been his best friend, before.

Before, what a weird concept. Before the world collapsed in on itself, before any sense of order shattered into shards too small to pick up or repair. It makes Dan sick to think about it.

He grits his teeth and wrenches a board back from where it's been hammered into a wall. It makes a horrific crunching noise and he sucks in a breath, his ears pricked for any noise that might be caused by someone other than himself. There's nothing, really. A few birds chirping, which is surreal to him. Even after two years of complete hell, the birds still sing and the wind still blows and the sun still fucking rises.

There's birds chirping but no humans, not anywhere, and no zombies either, as far as Dan can tell. So he tugs at another board, tries to get it loose. This one comes away easier, the rotten wood crumbling under his hands, and he's going to have splinters but it doesn't matter much, really.

The pharmacy is a small one, definitely used to be family-owned Before, and Dan doesn't think he'll find anything behind the boarded-up windows but it's worth a shot. He'll take anything he can get, really, although what he's specifically looking for are bandages and paracetamol. Maybe some cough syrup. Essentials. They'll all probably be expired by now, but it's better than nothing.

He wouldn't say no to sleeping pills either, because the nightmares have gotten worse. He doesn't know what triggered them or why. All he knows is that he's barely slept in weeks and when he does sleep it's shallow and punctuated by the pitiful dying screams that were his best friend's last words.

“Focus, Dan,” he mutters, and ducks to shimmy under the rotten boards. He moves into the pharmacy with bated breath, crouched low on the balls of his feet, a gun sitting easy in his hands.

Guns were never something Dan wanted to have any part of outside of, like, Call of Duty. But when everything went to shit he didn't have a choice. He handles guns with ease now, a natural extension of his arm; he could probably assemble, load, and shoot one in his sleep. If he stops and thinks about it for too long it scares the shit out of him, what he's turned into. Maybe not a ruthless killer, not yet. He remembers every face, regrets every bullet he's put through a person's body. Not the zombies, no, he doesn't regret those. He feels no guilt for blowing the brains out of a monster intent on feasting on his flesh. But the people, even if they were the ones attacking him, he carries the weight of their dying breaths on his shoulders every god damn day. Dan tries to convince himself that they were monsters too. It helps a little.

He scares himself, for sure. But he's kept himself alive for this long. He's adapted, somehow, and that is good enough for now.

Something in the next aisle takes a rattling breath and Dan hisses out an “are you fucking kidding me,” then slinks down the aisle (tragically naked of pill bottles) and peeks round the corner.

Halfway down is the corpse of a girl who looks too much like Cat for Dan to be comfortable, all dark hair and curves, which looks great on humans but simply grotesque on zombies.

She – no, not she,  _it_ , Dan reminds himself, zombies are  _monsters_ , they are  _its_  – is shuffling slowly down the aisle. It's clearly not heard or smelled Dan yet, but Dan is very aware that it's only a matter of time. And it won't let up, either, not once it senses Dan's presence. Not once it smells food.

The zombie's groans are unending, rattling around in its throat in a way that makes Dan want to be ill. He lets out a long breath, then eases slowly into the aisle. The zombie's back is mostly to him, but if it turns just a tiny bit to the right it'll see him immediately and he's praying to whatever gods or spirits or forces that might be out there that the creature won't move.

It doesn't, and he leaps forward silently and slams the butt of his gun into the zombie's skull. It lets out a guttural snarl and he just keeps smashing his gun down, one two three four hits, before the zombie finally collapses. Dan's got blood all down his front now and it smells horrible but it'll help disguise his human scent. Small mercies and all that.

He shudders and slams his gun down once more, just to be sure that the zombie's officially dead. Or whatever. They're already dead, is he really killing them?

“Doesn't matter, Dan,” he mutters. He runs a hand across his hair, which is getting obnoxiously long again, tangled and curly due to the lack of straighteners in the apocalypse.

The rest of the store is empty, not only of zombies but also of medicine, although Dan does grab two gauze bandages from underneath a collapsed shelf. Definitely something useful to have in times like these, gauze bandages.

He tucks them into his backpack, a sleek expensive all-black thing that Dan had found in the first house he, Chris, and Cat had broken into, then ducks out of the pharmacy into the blinding sunlit afternoon. He reckons he's got a bit more time to walk around while Chris finishes the official patrol, so he moves down the road at a steady trot.

Before, Dan was never very athletic. Dance Dance Revolution and the walk up the stairs to his flat were about the extent of his physical activity, if he's honest. But in the past two years, he's gotten lean and thin and muscled, thanks to too much running and not quite enough food. He's fast now, has to be; he'd be dead if he didn't have strong legs and stronger lungs.

As he approaches a roundabout all overgrown with weeds and grass that has grown as tall as his knee, he hears a sort of scuffling, something scratching against the pavement. He swallows down the irritation rising in his chest (irritation, what a weird thing to feel when he might be dead any minute), then steps back from the roundabout. Better to be able to see whatever it is that's sneaking up in the grass.

There's a rustling, then something small and relatively harmless slinks out into the road. Dan lets out a huff of laughter. It's a cat, a little orange-furred cat with white paws and bright green eyes.

“Hey, mate,” he says, crouching and reaching a hand out to the animal. It stares at him. “You're the first alive thing I've seen since I left my flat this morning. Nice to talk to something with a heartbeat.”

The cat doesn't respond, not that Dan expected it to. He wiggles his fingers and the cat moves closer cautiously, extending its head so Dan can rub gently at the fur beneath its chin.

“Hello,” he croons. “You're probably infested with all kinds of nasty shit, aren't you, yeah.” The cat's fur is surprisingly soft, thick and warm against Dan's hand, and it's soothing to feel the animal breathing. “Just you and me against the world, huh?”

The sun is still beating down on the top of Dan's head, hot and steady, and he can feel the skin on his neck beginning to burn. A small breeze ruffles the ends of his hair, drying the light sheen of sweat that glistens on his forehead, and the cat lets out a tiny miaow.

“Is that so?” Dan says, grinning, and he probably looks crazy but who fucking cares. The world is crazy, too. Crazier than talking to a cat on the road, anyway.

He doesn't hear the shuffling noises until it's too late, until the cat puffs up and hisses violently, its claws extending and its teeth bared, and Dan whirls around just in time to dodge out of the way of the zombie who's snuck up behind him somehow.

“Fuck!” he spits, scrambling to his feet and breaking into a sprint (not towards where he came from, no - he runs away from the Thames as fast as he can, because Chris is by the water and if Dan dies today he's going to be the only one) It occurs to him that he's holding a fucking gun and he could've just shot the thing, but oh well, too late now. The cat lets out a screech behind him but he doesn't risk looking back, just keeps running down the road, his pulse pounding erratically in his ears. He's so stupid, so so so fucking stupid, and he can hear footsteps behind him now, too heavy to be human.

Zombies are not terribly fast, but they don't get tired the way humans do. Once they've caught the scent of their prey they don't stop until they either eat or die.

Dan ignores the burn in his legs and just sprints, knowing that even if there are other people around they'll duck into hiding. No one's gonna save some scrawny kid's ass, not in times like these.

He turns down an alley and runs headfirst into a chain-link fence.

“Fuck!” he spits, because he is far too young to fucking die and he can hear the zombie catching up, can hear the groaning breath that has become the entire world's worst nightmare. “Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck.” There's not much time, he knows that, and with the last shred of hope in his body he slings his gun into its holster and starts to climb.

He's almost at the top when the zombie hurtles into the alley and crashes against the fence, shaking it violently. Dan clings to the metal, his muscles locked tight and his fingers aching where the fence is digging into them.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” he chants under his breath as the zombie claws at the fence and begins to climb. “You've got to be fucking joking.” He swings his legs over the top, then braces himself. There's no way down but to jump, so jump he will.

“Fuck!” he spits, then launches himself into the air. For a moment he feels like he's flying and it's incredible, exhilaration combining with terror to sharpen his mind and make the world slow down for a few precious seconds.

And then he crashes to the ground, remembering to bend his knees and roll with the contact, and fuck does it hurt but pain means he's alive, pain means he's still  _human_ , so he scrambles to his feet and staggers on, agony shooting up his shins with every step.

Dan's flagging, every movement getting more and more difficult, and the zombie is relentless in its chase. He lets out a sobbing breath as his feet snag on a crack in the concrete and he stumbles forward, hitting the ground hard and skidding forward. He hears the barrel of his gun break, a sharp snap that spells death, and he's distantly aware of the skin on his arm tearing open and his head is fuzzy with pain and his lungs are burning and he is so so incredibly tired.

The zombie lurches forward, closer and closer to him, and he bites down hard on his lip and grapples for his spare gun. It's heavy in his hand, which is raw and bleeding with road rash, and Dan's muscles are weak and he's going to die, he's going to die.

He scrambles up and swings the butt of his Glock at the zombie and screams in pain and the zombie stumbles back from the impact, but Dan's blood is pouring out of the gash in his arm now and oh god is that  _bone_ showing through? And he's weak, he's so fucking weak, and the edges of his vision are black and everything else is blurry and his gun falls to the ground with a clatter and this is it. After two years of fighting and killing and surviving, he's going to die all alone because he couldn't run fast enough.

Chris will never know what happened and that is what Dan regrets the most.

He slumps against the alley wall and watches dully as the zombie lunges at him, claw-like hands extended, and nothing about this feels real, not even the white-hot pain streaking through every cell in his body.

The last thing he hears before he blacks out is the sound of something crunching into bone, followed by the splatter of blood and brains against the ground.

-

It hurts.

That's the first thing that Dan registers, before his eyes open, before he says anything or even has a coherent thought.

His entire body hurts like a motherfucker.

“I think he's waking up,” someone says, and the voice is distant and hazy but Dan can hear it, can hear something moving around, can feel something soft beneath his body.

“Can you hear me?” says another voice. Dan feels like he's swimming upwards, towards a wavering light on the surface of a very deep pool.

“Careful,” the first voice barks. It sounds more feminine than the other voice, higher and sweeter but still sharp and guarded. “You checked him for bites, yeah?”

“'Course I did, I'm not stupid,” a third voice says, and that's when Dan's eyes shoot open. He sucks in a violent breath, his heart hammering, and everything is blurry and too dark.

“What the fuck,” he chokes out, his voice rough from lack of use, and he tries to sit up but it hurts. His eyes focus and he finds himself staring at a girl with big blue eyes and brown roots showing through her blonde hair. She raises her eyebrows at him.

“You got a feisty one, Phil,” she says coolly.

“Yeah?” the third voice asks. A boy with wild honey-brown curls slinks into the field of Dan's vision. He's got a bright red gash across the bridge of his nose.

“What's your name then?” the curly boy asks. Dan stares at him, trying to focus past the pain plaguing him.

“Where the fuck am I, what's going on?” he finally says, skipping over the curly-haired boy's question. The girl frowns sternly, her arms folded tight across her chest.

“You don't get to ask questions,” she tells him. Dan's eyebrows jump up.

“Really,” he says, and he's aware that insolence will probably just get him killed but then again he's likely a dead man anyway. Plus there's a horrible nauseating pain in his left arm that simply will not let up and Dan is feeling reckless, so. Whatever.

“Really,” confirms the third voice, and a boy with a shock of dark hair squats down in between the girl and the curly boy. He's got a sellotaped pair of glasses perched on his nose and Dan wonders how often he's had to do makeshift repairs on them. “You're only alive cos of us, you've got to answer our questions. It's only polite.”

Right. Because social constructs like politeness have totally survived the zombie apocalypse.

“Fine,” Dan snaps. “I'm Dan.”

The glasses boy is staring at him with pale blue eyes. Dan's slightly disconcerted by it, the power of this boy's gaze. He looks to be about Dan's age, maybe a year or two older, so not really a boy at all. Early to mid twenties, probably. A proper full-grown adult man. But he's thin the way Dan is, underfed and overexercised, and his eyes are large in his face and his dark hair is messy and he just. He looks young. Vulnerable, maybe.

“Right, Dan, we've checked you for bites and you're clean, but you've lost a load of blood,” the curly-haired boy says. The glasses boy nods, his eyes never leaving Dan's face. Dan feels a bit like an animal in a zoo.

“Okay, so?” Dan says, and he's trying to stay calm but he's somewhere he doesn't know with people he's never met and Chris is probably freaking out.

Fuck,  _Chris_.

“I'm, I've got to go,” Dan stammers, attempting to sit up, but the curly-haired boy pushes him backwards and wow,  _fuck_  does that hurt. Dan clenches his jaw and refuses to cry out, but tears burst into his eyes. He stoically ignores the way they roll down his cheeks, and is extremely grateful that his captors (or saviours, or whoever they are) do the same. 

“Not a chance, mate,” the curly-haired boy says firmly, his eyebrows furrowed. “We managed to stitch you up and set your wrist while you were passed out but you've lost loads of blood and you need rest.”

“My friend, Chris, I can't,” Dan tries to explain. “I can't stay here, my friend needs to know where I am, he's probably going mad, I have to go, fucking let me  _go_!”

The girl exchanges a weary glance with the glasses boy, then reaches out and puts a gentle hand on Dan's uninjured arm.

“Have a rest, Dan, we'll sort it out in the morning.”

It registers with Dan that it's really quite dim in the room, nighttime staining the walls. Even if Dan had the strength to leave wherever it is that he's being kept, it'd be too dangerous. He can only hope that Chris has the sense not to go searching for him in the dark.

The girl stands up, closely followed by the two boys, and Dan slumps onto his mattress. He's exhausted, his whole body aching, the pain especially vibrant in his left arm. Which, fuck. The curly-haired boy had said something about setting Dan's wrist, and Dan vaguely remembers a glimpse of something jagged and white poking out of the gash in his arm just before he lost consciousness. It's very possible that his left wrist is badly broken, which, shit. Left handed, that could be a problem.

He becomes aware of a muttered conversation and strains his ears to eavesdrop. Fuck the idea of privacy, they're undoubtedly talking about him and he has a right to know.

“What are we meant to do with him, Phil?” someone spits, and it sounds like the curly-haired boy.

“I couldn't just let him die, I was right there, I had to!” someone else protests, and this must be the boy with the glasses. Phil.

“We don't know anything about him, we don't know who he is or where he's from or what he's done, and what about that Chris bloke he was going on about, who the hell is he?” the curly-haired boy continues, his voice rising in volume.

“PJ, shh!” the girl hisses. “He's lost loads of blood, he's probably imagining things from the shock. It's more than likely that he's alone. If he's not then we're still safe, okay, there was no one following us and no one's got near since then, I did checks not even half an hour ago.”

The three of them fall into an uneasy silence and Dan wills himself to take deep, even breaths, feigning sleep. Someone outside screams somewhere far in the distance, the voice thin against the vastness of the city night, and the girl lets out a quiet “close the window.” Footsteps cross the room and Dan hears the window slither shut. He's grateful, has no desire to listen to someone's dying screams while he sits here safe, isn't sure he'd be able to do so without thinking of every single person he's lost in the last two years.

“Any sign of Matt?” glasses boy – no, he has a name, his name is Phil – asks softly. The girl sucks in a harsh breath.

“No,” she says, weary. There's a rustle and Dan opens his eyes just a tiny bit, enough to see Phil wrapping his arms around her.

“We'll look more tomorrow, Louise,” the curly-haired boy – PJ, Dan reminds himself – decides, his voice much softer than it was before. “We should get some sleep for now. Everything's locked up, yeah?” Louise makes a small noise of confirmation. “Right, I'll do a quick roof check and Louise, just go to bed, you look dead on your feet. I can do your perimeter checks as well, just get some rest. Phil, could you stay here, make sure... What's his name?”

“Dan,” Phil says.

“Right, Dan. Make sure Dan stays stable, he won't be any good to us if he kicks it.” There are mumbles of agreement, then a rustle as they all hug tightly. It makes something in Dan's chest twinge. He wonders if Chris is okay, out there alone. Their flat is safe enough, secure in that the building's only got one door and every single window had been boarded up with sheet metal during the Pandemic, in a last-ditch government attempt to seal off some of the Infected.

It hadn't worked out for the government, but it had definitely worked in Dan and Chris's favour. No one got in or out without Dan and Chris knowing. They'd been living in the building for nearly six months, through the entirety of the winter, and Dan wonders if this building he's in now is even half as secure.

PJ leaves the room, grabbing a crossbow as he walks out the door, and Dan's impressed with the confidence in his walk. Some people have perhaps not thrived, but definitely found a stronger version of themselves here at the end of the world. Dan supposes he has done, too.

“You okay?” asks Phil, and his voice is gentle and lilting, a hint of a Northern accent rounding out his vowels. There's a heavy sigh and Dan watches through barely-open eyelids as Louise rests her head on Phil's shoulder wearily.

 

“It's been four days, Phil,” she mumbles. “Four days and still nothing.”

“We'll find them,” Phil says, and he sounds genuine, determination shining through his obvious exhaustion. Dan wonders who they've lost, who else might be in their little family. “We won't stop until we find them, okay? I promise.” Louise nods, then kisses Phil on the cheek.

“I'm going to bed. Wake me if you need me, okay? Love you.”

Louise exits the room, leaving Dan and Phil alone. Dan carries on pretending to sleep, keeping his body limp and his breathing slow and his eyes cracked open just the slightest bit. Phil's sat in a chair now, his inordinately long fingers wrapped loosely around the handle of a metal baseball bat (Dan feels a twinge of pain at that, at the sight of Cat's weapon of choice) and his back slouched a bit.

“I can tell you're not asleep,” Phil says quietly. Dan freezes, then sighs and slowly rolls his body so he's sitting up.

“Sorry,” he mutters, his voice tight from the pain jolting through him. Phil shrugs. He doesn't make eye contact with Dan, choosing instead to stare at a corner of the mattress instead.

“'S’alright, I get it,” he says finally, his voice strained with what sounds like a barely-stifled yawn. “I wouldn't fall asleep in a room full of strangers either.” He stands up, cracking his back with a quick arch of his spine, then approaches the mattress. “'S’just me now though. Mind if I sit down here? I feel like a gaoler on that chair, staring over at you.”

Dan smiles despite himself and Phil smiles back, hesitant. It's not much, but it's not open hostility, and for that Dan is grateful.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, sitting up and folding his legs so Phil has room to sit on the mattress. Which, Dan now notices, is slightly dusty and laying directly on the floor, no bed frame in sight.

Phil crosses his legs too, props his chin on his elbows, then leans off the mattress to grab a sketchbook and a mechanical pencil. Dan watches curiously as Phil flips open the sketchbook and starts doodling, shading a circle onto the creamy paper.

“You draw?” Dan says, and immediately feels idiotic. Phil shoots a small smile at him.

“Not really, I'm pretty rubbish.” He flips back a few pages in the sketchbook and holds it up for Dan to see. It's a cartoonish drawing, but it's clearly of Phil, Louise, and PJ, as well as another guy and a tiny figure with wild curls. Dan bites back the obvious question.

“I'm terrible, really, but it's relaxing,” Phil continues. “Plus whoever lived here before must've been an artist, there were about 40 of these sketchbooks, and when we raided Poundland they had a whole massive display of mechanical pencils and lead. Figured, Peej has his music and Louise has her nail varnish therapy thing, so I might as well have something too.” He smiles softly, then turns back to his page in the sketchbook and carries on drawing. His pencil scratches across the paper in a curiously soothing way and Dan's arm still throbs with pain but he can feel his eyelids getting heavy, is very aware of his alertness slipping away into sleep. Which is, in general, a dangerous choice in the zombie apocalypse, but these people have already saved his life. They could have left him for dead and saved themselves the trouble, yet here they are, with Dan very much alive.

-

He wakes up in the morning because the pain is too much, and he's crying messily, open-mouthed and gasping and shaking, and he has no idea what to do with his arm because no matter what he does it hurts, it fucking hurts,  _oh god make it stop hurting_.

“Please, please,” he sobs, staring at his bandages, which are still clean and white, which is wrong, why aren't they bloody and infected, surely that's why it hurts so much? “Make it stop please please please!”

Phil bursts through the door, his eyes wide and slightly panicked, clutching a canvas bag in his hand.

“Dan, shh!” he says. “You're gonna be okay, I'm here, it's fine, okay?” He looks tired, his eyes purple-shadowed and bloodshot, but there's a determined set to his mouth and jaw that would catch Dan's eye if he could think about anything other than the fucking pain.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dan whimpers, and what the hell, he's gotten wounded before but it was never like this, not once,  _why the actual fuck does it hurt so much_?

“I've got paracetamol,” Phil says gently. “And it won't get rid of all the pain but it will help, I promise. PJ is coming in soon to check on your stitches. You'll be okay, Dan, you will. Breathe for me, breathe, you're all tense, it's gonna hurt your arm more if you're tense, okay?”

Phil's voice is soothing against Dan's ears and he tries, tries to breathe in and out slow and deep but he can't, it hurts so fucking much and that's all there is is the pain, dear fucking Christ.

“Dan, you're hyperventilating,” Phil says, and he grabs Dan's good hand and puts it on his own chest. “You need to calm down, Dan, okay, feel my heartbeat? Feel how steady that is?” Dan tries to focus on the rhythmic thudthudthud of Phil's pulse, but it just makes him aware of his own erratic heartbeat, and  _fuck_.

“Dan,” Phil insists. He puts the canvas bag down and climbs into bed, wrapping his arms around Dan's body gingerly. “Can you feel me breathing?”

Dan gives a short, jerky nod.

“Okay, good, now breathe with me, yeah? In, out, good, just like that. Good, Dan, well done.” Phil keeps talking, slow and easy, and the pain isn't dying down but the panic is, a little, and that helps. Dan can feel Phil's chest moving against his back and he tries to match his breathing with Phil's, with the even inhales and exhales, and it's working and he'll be okay, maybe, possibly, probably. The fog of panic has nearly cleared and Dan's arm still hurts as much as ever but he's okay, or he will be.

“Thank you,” he mutters, his voice still tight with anxiety. When Phil nods the edges of his fringe brush Dan's neck and Dan barely manages not to flinch.

When Dan's breathing properly without Phil having to guide him, Phil slides off the mattress and grabs the canvas bag from where he dropped it on the floor. Dan watches him as he digs through the bag, pulling out a white plastic bottle and a canteen of water.

“Paracetamol,” Phil says, sitting back down and uncapping the bottle. “To help your arm hurt less. It won't do loads, mind, but it should take the edge off.” He pours four tablets into the palm of his hand and holds them out to Dan, who takes them warily. He's never been good at swallowing pills.

“Cheers,” he says grimly, throwing them back. The tablets leave a gross taste in his mouth and he shudders, but the water helps a bit. Hopefully the pain in his arm will ease up a little.

“It's bad then?” Phil asks, watching as Dan readjusts his arm carefully. Dan snorts.

“'S’not a bite, I'll be fine,” he says, although the pain is really truly overwhelming. His breath keeps getting caught in his chest every time he moves even an inch, the pain crashing over him in violent waves. Phil nods.

“Yeah, could be worse.”

They lapse into silence. It's still dark outside, although there's a pinkish glow at the edge of the horizon that hints at the day to come. Dan wonders what will happen when the sun rises, whether he'll be forced to leave or allowed to stay. He's not sure what he wants to do. Leaving means finding Chris, but it also means leaving safety and medical care, and his dominant arm is badly injured. Which is really not ideal.

“Your friend, Chris, you think he'll be okay without you?” Phil asks, his voice quiet. Dan sighs.

“Dunno. I mean, he's able to take care of himself, but like. He might not do well not knowing where I am.” Not knowing if I'm alive, he doesn't add. Phil nods and shifts a little on the mattress, stretching out his long legs.

“We'll find him,” Phil promises. “We're. We're looking for some other people, a man and a little girl, actually, so we'll search for him when we search for them. Er, you haven't, like. Seen them?” He looks up at Dan with a hollow look in his eyes. Dan frowns.

“I haven't seen anybody except you lot and Chris,” he says. Phil opens his mouth, then shuts it and shakes his head.

“No, I mean, you haven't seen, like, any zombies like them?” He reaches towards the floor and grabs a scrap of paper, which turns out to be a photo, then holds it out to Dan. It's of Louise, a man with dark hair and a crinkly smile, and a tiny girl with blonde curls and a sunshiny grin. Dan thinks for a minute, then shakes his head.

“No, none like them,” he says, and he's being honest, and he's glad. Phil sags with relief.

“Oh thank god,” he mumbles. “There's still a chance we'll find them, then.”

Dan doesn't say anything, knows better than to pop the fragile soap bubble of hope that Phil has allowed into the room. There's always still a chance, he reminds himself. A slim chance, a next-to-nothing chance, a needle-in-a-haystack fucking chance, but still a chance.

Soap bubble hope is better than no hope at all.

`

The paracetamol kicks in a little less than an hour later and it doesn't make the pain go away, not even close, but it dulls the red-razor edge of it and Dan can think again, properly, without the majority of his brain focusing on his arm.

He wonders how long it takes for broken bones to heal. Also, is his arm actually broken? That's what he's assuming, given PJ talked about setting his arm as well as stitching him up, although he supposes that no one's ever specifically said that the bone is cracked.

Phil's still sketching away, the tip of his tongue stuck out in concentration, his dark hair flopping forward over his face. The scratching of his pencil against the paper is surprisingly not annoying. Maybe Dan just likes to know that someone else is alive in this room, to know that someone else has a heartbeat, and a brain that won't turn off, and hands that won't sit still.

The sun is rising over the ragged city skyline and Dan watches it through the window, watches as the sky goes from indigo to purple to pinky-orange stained with a hint of pale blue. It's been a long time since he watched a sunrise and he's taken aback by the timeless beauty of it, by the unchangedness of the sky despite the utter 180° turn the world below has done in the past two years.

“Pretty, isn't it?” Phil's voice is soft and when Dan looks over at him he's got a strange little smile on his face, one side of his mouth tilted up further than the other, the happiness not quite reaching the corners of his eyes. Dan nods. Pretty doesn't do it justice, not even close, but no words really could.

Footsteps approach from the next room and PJ joins them, his hair even wilder after being tousled by sleep.

“Morning, gonna check on your stitches now if that's okay, unless the pain is too much,” he says, all business other than the yawn that interrupts him halfway through, and Dan nods. Phil moves out of the way and PJ takes his place on the mattress, then carefully manoeuvres Dan's arm out of its bandages. Dan's palms are sweaty with anxiety and he can feel his breathing beginning to speed up.

“Hey,” Phil says, noticing how pale Dan's gone. “Hey, you're okay, Peej's just checking the stitches.” Dan nods, but he's definitely hyperventilating now because he's seen the wound and  _fuck_ , the row of carefully-sewn and only slightly uneven black stitches stretches in a jagged line from halfway up his wrist to nearly the inside of his elbow and what the actual bloody hell did he catch his arm on, a butcher's knife?

“You're lucky you missed your main artery,” PJ murmurs, and Dan lets out a choked little noise and looks directly at Phil and his mouth feels glued shut but Phil understands anyway (how does he understand, how, they've not even known each other a day and he understands), jumps up from his spot on the floor and rushes to Dan's side.

“Hey,” Phil says, soothing and gentle, his hand resting featherlight on Dan's back between his shoulderblades. “Hey, it's okay, you're fine, Dan, it's really okay, alright, PJ got you all stitched up and they're the dissolving kind and you're fine, you're okay, it's okay.”

Dan doesn't believe him, exactly, but there's something about Phil's soft Northern accent that flows into Dan's bloodstream and calms him down enough to stop hyperventilating, to focus on keeping his breaths steady and slow.

“Well done, Dan, see, you're fine!” Phil smiles, and PJ puts new bandages on Dan's arm and nods, announces the endeavour a success. Dan's shaking.

“What did I get cut on? My arm's not broken is it?” he asks. His voice is ragged with agony and nerves, but at least his throat's stopped closing up.

“Not broken, no, and it was a bit of metal fencing sticking out from the ground,” Phil says. “It was gross. Not rusty though, so you probably don't have tetanus. Hopefully.” Dan winces, then nods. Hopefully will have to do. Not like they have the medical expertise or equipment needed to deal with tetanus.

Phil seems to talk about hope a lot, uses the word  _hopefully_ like it's a reassurance, a promise, rather than a bit of a lie. It makes Dan squirm a little. Hoping for something good feels more like deluding himself, these days.

“Hey, er, would you want, like, would you want to wash up and stuff? Louise could do a haircut, probably, and you can borrow some of my clothes?” Phil asks, his eyes wide. Dan opens his mouth, then closes it and glances down at himself. He looks a right mess, the front of his shirt stiff with dried blood and his skin nearly black in places from the sheer amount of grime caked in.

“Yeah, I would, cheers,” Dan says. Phil nods and bounces into the next room, leaving Dan on his own for the first time since he's been here.

Dan slumps back against the thin pillow, thinking hard. He needs to find Chris, but his arm is essentially useless. He could probably shoot a gun with his right hand, but he doesn't want to try. He also doesn't want to sit here knowing that Chris is out there on his own, worried and probably doing something stupid and impulsive.

Phil comes back into the room and gestures at Dan to get up.

“We've got a whole setup, loads of water, perks of living right by the river,” he says cheerfully, and Dan nods. The place where he and Chris have been squatting is right on the Thames too, so they have an unlimited water source. Just boil it, or throw a couple water purifying tablets in (although those have become rare in the past few months), and you've got water that's safe to drink. “Louise says she'll give you a haircut once you're all washed. You can shave too, if you want, we've got some razors and things.” Phil shoots a bright smile at Dan. “You'll feel really good after. More like yourself.”

-

The bathroom is small, with a chipped tile floor and a yellowing porcelain tub. It smells of mould but there's also a hint of something flowery and soapy and clean. There's a sort of aquaduct leading from a hole drilled into the wall to the tub and Phil shows him how to activate it. Clear water streams into the bottom of the tub and Dan watches it gather there, slightly awestruck. He's not seen this much clean water in years.

“How did you do this?” he asks, his eyes wide. Phil grins.

“PJ's brilliant,” is all he says. Dan raises his eyebrows and Phil shrugs cheerfully. “Dunno how he did it, but it works. We hooked it up to a water purifier and there's rain tanks and everything, it's amazing.”

Dan wonders how it is that this little group had the incredible luck of finding this place. He and Chris (and fuck, thinking about Chris is painful, and Dan needs to stop before he goes mad) have been managing with infrequent sponge-baths for the last two years.

“It is amazing,” he agrees. Phil nods and opens up the cupboard under the sink.

“Shampoo here, please don't use loads, and there's soap here as well, and flannels.” He smiles a little. Dan smiles back and Phil leaves the bathroom.

“Don't get naked yet!” he calls to Dan through the door. “I'm getting you clothes!” A few seconds pass, then the door swings open and Phil tosses a bundle of dark clothing into the bathroom. He flashes another grin at Dan. “Enjoy.”

With the door closed at last, Dan strips down and steps into the tub, hissing when he feels the chill of the water against his feet. It makes sense that it's cold water, given there's no good way to heat it up, but it's still a bit shocking on his skin.

He sits down and lets the water glide over his body, silky and cool, and for a few minutes he just soaks, feeling a tiny fraction of the tension in his muscles relax and release. He leans back and ducks his head underwater and it's bliss. Dan already feels cleaner than he has done in months, and that's before even using soap.

When he does begin to use the soap, though, he can't stop a little groan from falling past his lips. He didn't really realise just how dirty his skin was, blood and dirt and dust and ash caked into his pores. The water is fast turning a putrid shade of brown-black, so Dan drains the tub, watches the muddy water swirl down the drain, then turns on the faucet again.

It takes four tubs' worth of water, but finally Dan is clean again, properly clean, down to the bitten-off nubs of his fingernails. Phil was right. Dan feels more like himself now than he has in years. And when he looks in the mirror, he almost recognises himself again, despite the tangled curls hanging round his shoulders and the clothes that don't sit on his frame in quite the right way.

Louise knocks on the door.

“Ready for me?” she calls. “Not naked?”

“Nah, go on,” Dan says, so Louise joins him in the bathroom and has him sit at the edge of the tub, a sheet around his shoulders.

“How d'you want it cut?” she asks. Dan shrugs.

“Short, I guess, but like, not too short?” he says, rather at a loss. Before, he'd had a hairdresser who'd done his hair so many times they didn't even have to discuss it anymore. He's not sure how to describe what he wants, other than for most of it to be gone.

“Like Phil's hair?” Louise prompts, and Dan grins, picturing the floppy fringe, reminiscent of the emo-ish hair he'd had Before.

“Yeah, that's perfect. My fringe goes the other way though,” he says, and she smiles (it doesn't reach her eyes and Dan knows it's because there are people missing here, there is a gap, and he has, if anything, pulled that gap further open) and gets to work.

Dan watches as the tangled rings of his hair fall to the floor of the bathtub, dark against the yellowing porcelain, and with each snip of the blades through his hair he feels a bit lighter, like the sky is pressing down on him a little less. And when Louise finishes and he looks in the mirror, he looks properly like himself. A thinner, warier, tireder version of himself, but still. He is recognisable. He is Dan again.

“Thank you,” he says to Louise, heartfelt. She smiles a little and nods.

When Dan and Louise leave the bathroom, it's full daylight and PJ is sitting in a chair by the window, cleaning off a bundle of arrows. Greyish sunlight is filtering into the room and Dan gets his first proper look around.

It's an open-plan flat, much like the one he had with Chris and Cat before everything went to shit, and there's sunlight streaming through a wide window that's only half boarded-up. The furniture looks like the sort you'd find in an old lady's house and there are dust motes drifting in the air.

Phil's sprawled across the rose-patterned carpet, his lanky legs stretched out behind him and his glasses sliding down the slope of his nose a little. He's staring intently at a map, the tip of one long finger skimming the surface and his lips moving a little as he mumbles to himself under his breath. A beam of weak sunlight is reflecting off his dark hair.

Louise puts the scissors in a drawer and glances out the window.

“Anyone done checks yet?” she asks. PJ looks up at her.

“I haven't done roof checks, but I did perimeter,” he says. She nods.

“I can do roof then,” she offers. PJ nods and sets aside his arrows.

“I'll come with you.”

They leave the room, PJ flicking a suspicious glance at Dan as they go. Dan sinks to the floor, careful not to jostle his arm. The cold water had felt good against the wound but now his bandages are soggy and itching. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and Phil looks up.

“Y'alright?” he asks, pushing his glasses up his nose. Dan makes a face. The itching is overpowering the pain, almost, and it's worse, if he's honest. He'd rather it hurt.

“Bandages got gross in the bath,” he explains, and Phil smacks himself on the forehead.

“Sorry,” he says fervently, standing up and crossing the room to join Dan. “I didn't even think of that!” He takes Dan's arm and carefully begins unwrapping the bandage. It falls away in sodden loops and Phil makes a face. “Sorry, that did get quite gross.”

He pulls the rest of the bandage away, revealing reddened skin and the jagged line of stitches that had made Dan so panicked earlier. They're clean, fortunately, no sign of infection (zombie or otherwise), and Dan takes deep breaths to combat the swimming in his head.

“Y'alright?” Phil asks again, noticing the tenseness in Dan's face.

“Hurts,” Dan grunts, and it's true, agony is crashing over him in waves again. Phil's eyebrows knit together.

“You've already had the maximum dose of paracetamol, we can't give you any more,” he says, worry dripping from every syllable, and if Dan weren't distracted by the fiery licks of pain that are rushing through his arm and reverberating across his entire body he'd wonder why Phil is so concerned about him.

“'S’fine,” Dan mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut as Phil winds clean bandages around his arm. “'S’just cos you're moving it, 's fine.” The first of several tears oozes out from between his clenched eyelids and Dan groans, the sound gravelly in his throat.

“Sorry sorry sorry,” Phil chants, securing the bandage and setting down Dan's arm. “All done now, you're okay.” He reaches out and skims his thumb across Dan's cheekbone, wiping away the tears that are rolling across the skin there. Dan's breath catches a little in his throat and he's not sure if it's due to the pain or the unwarranted kindness and affection that is flowing through the tips of Phil's slender fingers and seeping across his low voice.

-

Dan doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must have done, because when he opens his eyes sunlight's coming in from the other side of the flat, bright and warm in the way only afternoon light can be. Phil's hunched over his sketchbook again, his pencil lead scratching gently against the paper, and there's a stream of noise in the other room that Dan can't place right away. Then it hits him.

“Is someone playing guitar?” he asks incredulously. Phil looks up and shakes his fringe out of his eyes, his lips curving into a lopsided smile.

“Yeah, it's how Peej relaxes,” he tells Dan, who blinks. It's been two years since he listened to music. He misses it. The guitar is soft and steady and well-tuned, the notes floating through the dusty air like memories. PJ starts singing, something about the moon, and his voice is low and husky and calming, and Dan wishes he could stay in this moment forever, here with Phil's pencil and PJ's guitar reminding him that he is not alone.

-

PJ checks Dan's arm while Phil and Louise are doing patrol after dinner that night (beans on toast, made over a fire and slightly burnt) and it hurts less than it did earlier.

“The stitches will absorb on their own, I don't have to cut them out,” he tells Dan, who nods and breathes deep through his nose. It hurts less, yeah, but it still fucking hurts. “Pain from one to ten?”

Dan hates this question, hates it with every fibre of his being, because he is never sure what ten means. He is never sure if something will hurt more, and so he saves his ten. And he's 99% sure he stole that philosophy from a John Green novel but it still holds true.

“Er, seven I guess?” he mumbles, because if he's saving his ten, then this morning was a nine, and it hurts much less than this morning but it's still fairly intense.

“You don't have to be brave for this, Dan, it's to help,” PJ says, his eyebrows furrowed, and Dan wonders when exactly PJ got so worried. He supposes it's because an alive body is more helpful than a dead one in an apocalypse.

“I know,” he mumbles. PJ wipes gently at the red skin around the stitches and Dan winces. “Fuck, ow, yeah, seven. And a half.”

The corner of PJ's mouth twitches into a brief smile as he rewraps Dan's arm.

“Four paracetamol, then, and be sure to try to move your fingers every so often, yeah?” he instructs. Dan nods and PJ stands up, his knees making quiet cracking noises as they straighten out. He stretches, the last dregs of evening sunlight getting caught in his hair.

The front door to the flat opens and Phil and Louise stumble inside, grimy and bloody. PJ springs into action.

“Holy shit, what happened, are you okay?” he asks, grabbing their weapons from them and bolting the door shut.

“Didn't get bit, I don't think,” Louise says, looking down at herself with distaste. “Check us anyway though.” PJ shoots a look at Dan, who stares back, then realises what PJ wants.

“Shit, right,” he stammers, scrambling off the mattress and ignoring the fresh swell of pain in his arm. He joins PJ in front of Louise and Phil, then glances at PJ for directions. Dan knows how to check for bites, of course, but these aren't his people and he doesn't want to make a wrong move.

“I'll check Louise, you do Phil,” PJ decides, rolling up his sleeves. Dan nods and gets to work, helping Phil shrug off his filthy jacket.

Phil stands obediently while Dan examines him, lifting his arms when Dan says to do so and slipping out of his t-shirt so Dan can see past the blood clotting the fabric. There aren't any bites on Phil's torso or arms and Dan determinedly ignores the subtle shifts of muscle underneath his hands when he checks for scratches.

“Right, trousers down I guess?” he says quickly, his face flaming a little. Phil nods and undoes his flies with nimble fingers, shoving his jeans down to his ankles. His legs are long and lean, the skin pale and unmarked by bites or scrapes. Dan pushes up his boxers to check his thighs and tries valiantly to be quick about it, to ignore how Phil's breathing is still heavy from running.

“You're good,” Dan mutters, and Phil thanks him and tugs his jeans back up.

Louise is fine as well, her skin intact, and they all let themselves breathe easy for a minute or so before launching back into action.

“What happened out there?” PJ asks, and Dan slinks back to his mattress. This isn't his place, he doesn't have any right to listen to their conversation.

“We were at the Tescos down the road and a massive horde of zombies came, at least a dozen. Barely got out with our lives, much less any cans,” Phil says. “No sign of any living people, but plenty of dead ones.”

Dan frowns. The virus had receded a little in the past few months, but at least a dozen zombies can't come out of nowhere. If there's a new wave of infection there'll be nothing to do but get out of London, and fast.

“They were fresh, too,” Louise adds, her voice a bit strained. PJ swears under his breath. Dan stares the ragged nails of his right hand. They're clean for the first time in months, no dirt or blood caked underneath them, and they're bitten to the quick.

Cat used to coat his nails with clear varnish Before, so he wouldn't bite them, and Dan hates that that memory is resurfacing right now. Sunlight streaming through their flat's windows, Arctic Monkeys playing quietly through Dan's battered portable speakers, Chris muttering crossly about the amount of reading he had left to do for his classes, and the smell of nail varnish leaking into Dan's nostrils. Happy times and easy companionship and the knowledge that things were okay. Better than okay.

Things had been so fucking good before they went bad.

“Dan,” Phil says, snapping Dan out of his reverie. He looks over at the three of them, huddled together, and he can almost feel the bonds between them, the love and the trust overriding the quiet desperation that clings to everyone's skin nowadays.

“Yeah?” he rasps, then coughs to clear his throat.

“How many zombies did you see the day we found you?” Louise asks.

“And how many the day before?” PJ adds, his hands fiddling with one of Phil's mechanical pencils, a bright blue one with yellow stripes.

Dan bites his lip hard, thinking. There was the one in the shop that'd looked a bit like Cat, and the mostly-disintegrated one he and Chris had smashed on their way out of their flat. And of course the one that'd chased Dan into this situation in the first place. And that, Dan thinks, was only on the day he most recently nearly died. (And what a strange way to look at the world – keeping time by the number of days it's been since his latest brush with death.)

“Seven,” he tells them. “Two yesterday – yesterday, was it? When you found me?” When you saved me, he doesn't say, because he already feels like he owes these three strangers and debts are dangerous. Phil nods. “Right, two yesterday and five the day before.”

The tension in PJ's shoulders visibly grows as he collapses against the wall like a cut marionette.

“Right, that's not. That's not terrible, is it,” Phil says bravely, but it is. It's fucking terrible because Dan's seen seven zombies in the last two days and Phil and Louise barely escaped from a dozen more and that's nineteen zombies in  _two days_ and if Dan's honest with himself (and denial is so easy and so tempting but honesty is the best policy, isn't it) that spells nothing but trouble.

The virus works in waves, is the thing, and Dan has been told all his life that things have to get worse before they get better and in this case that is most certainly true. The first case of the virus to be recorded in the United Kingdom was in early July of 2012, and once it broke through quarantine all hell broke loose. It didn't slack down until January of the next year, but then all at once everything went near-silent. There were still outbreaks, but so many people had died that it just didn't have the opportunity to really spread the way it had done before.

No one is sure how the virus works. They do know, however, that everyone is infected. Sort of a Walking Dead thing, Dan thinks, and he grimaces just thinking about it because this shits all over The Walking Dead.

“No,” PJ lies. Louise slumps against the wall and buries her face in her hands.

“I need a bath,” she mumbles. “And my baby.”

Dan's stomach clenches. There's an awkward stretching silence in which no one is sure to say. Then Louise mutters “sorry” and leaves the room, her breathing strange and jagged.

“I'm gonna go do checks,” PJ says after a few more long seconds of silence. Dan stares at his nails and doesn't say anything. The paracetamol is starting to kick in properly and the throbbing pain in his arm is easing up a bit. “Roof and perimeter, I don't think Lou is in any state to do hers.”

“Mm,” Phil agrees, nodding as he toes off his shoes, a battered pair of dark blue Converse that have faded bloodstains and old lines of ink on the rubber tips. “I'll do her midnight checks then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” PJ says, then leaves. Phil nudges the door closed behind him and glances over at Dan, flicking his hair out of his eyes quickly.

“You don't have to sit there like we're going to murder you if you move,” he points out. Dan grimaces.

“I've seen it done before,” he says. Phil closes his eyes for a moment, then sighs.

“So've I. 'S why we're not gonna do it, cos it's wrong,” he replies, sinking slowly to the floor . “We don't trust you but we're not going to kill you unless you've given us a reason to.”

And that, Dan thinks, is what humanity is in an apocalypse. That is what human relationships are built on now.  _We won't kill you because you've not given us a reason to. We won't kill you because you're useful, you're pretty, you're not worth wasting a bullet_.

Dan shudders violently and Phil raises his eyebrows.

“Y'alright?”

“Just thinking,” Dan mumbles. Phil nods. He gets it. Everyone gets it.

They sit in silence awhile, Dan picking absently at the skin around his nails and Phil slumping back against the wall, his eyes downcast. Dan wonders what Phil was like Before, whether he was at uni or out of it or never went. Maybe he had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or both, or neither. Maybe he sang in the shower and spent too much money on videogames and got teary-eyed over books, just like Dan.

Or maybe Dan is overthinking, wondering too much about a man who holds Dan's life in his hands. Maybe what people were like Before shouldn't matter because the only thing Dan should be thinking about is survival.

Phil's drawing again, his pencil making soft scratching noises as he shades something in, his forehead crinkled a bit in the centre with concentration. Dan leans back against the wall and stares at the ceiling, eyeing the yellowish water stains with a kind of vacant curiosity. They're the sort of thing that would have bothered him to no end Before, but now he almost likes them and he's not sure why.

There's shuffling footsteps in the corridor outside the flat and out of the corner of his eye Dan sees Phil tense up, twist a bit to look at the door. Constant vigilance, Dan thinks. Mad-Eye Moody would be proud.

The footsteps fade and Phil frowns and sets down his sketchbook. Dan watches as he stands up and crosses the room to the window, taking care to stay out of sight to anyone who might be lurking on the street below.

“Shit,” he hears Phil whisper, and a chill streaks down Dan's spine into his stomach, spreading through his entire body and making the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. Phil glances back at Dan, then looks over at the door that leads to the rest of the flat.

“Fuck, right, come on,” he hisses, darting to the front door on soft feet and listening hard. There's no noise. Adrenaline is thrumming through Dan's veins, making the world crystal-clear and dangerous.

Phil exhales hard, then grabs Dan's wrist and tugs him through the door to the next room of the flat. Dan follows with no complaint. Something's gone terribly wrong.

It's dark in the room, Dan can only just make out the dim silhouettes of what appears to be a bed and a massive armchair, and it smells slightly flowery.

“Lou,” Phil says, his voice low and urgent. “Lou, someone's here.”

There's a small scuffle and then Louise's silhouette rises from the bed.

“What?” she mumbles, her voice heavy with sleep.

“Someone's here, someone's in the building and it's not Peej because I just saw him outside.”

Dan's blood runs cold.

“What?” Louise says, and she's wide awake now, and tension is prickling in the air.

“Dunno, I heard footsteps outside and it's not PJ.” Phil glances over at Dan for confirmation. Dan nods.

“Oh god,” Louise whispers. “What do we do?”

They stand in silence for a few seconds, and  _christ_ , they don't have time for this, these few seconds could mean the difference between life and death, and then Phil exhales hard and nods.

“Right. There's three of us, I only heard one of them, and it sounded like a zombie. The footsteps sounded too slow and uneven to be human, shuffly. You know what I mean.” Louise and Dan nod in confirmation. “Right. So we'll grab weapons, bash its head in, clean up, get back inside. Quick job.” His voice is steady and sure.

Phil leads them into the lounge and grabs his metal baseball bat. Louise shoulders a wicked-looking machete with a handle wrapped in hot pink duck tape. Dan stands awkwardly, unsure where they've put his gun.

“Oh, er,” Phil says when he notices Dan's uncertain stare. He darts into the next room and shuffles about for a minute or so, then comes back into the lounge holding Dan's Glock. He holds it out to Dan, the serious look on his face creasing his forehead and drawing tiny lines next to his eyes.

“Try anything and we'll kill you,” he says lightly. Dan nods and takes the gun. It sits heavy and comforting and familiar in his hand. “Right, let's go.”

Phil leads the way to the door, then gestures at Louise to open it. She does so, twisting the knob and pulling the door open slowly so as to make as little noise as possible, and Phil creeps into the corridor. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't look back, just signals to Louise and Dan to follow him.

The corridor is empty, but there's a streak of gore on the opposite wall that is leading towards the half-open lift midway down. They follow it, their footsteps soft on the ratty beige carpeting, weapons at the ready. Dan's skin is crawling with nerves and pain is pulsing in his arm.

The gore streak ends abruptly at the end of the corridor, which branches into two smaller hallways. Phil lets out a quiet “shit”, then turns to Dan and Louise.

“We'll split up, you two take right and I'll take left,” he says, all business, and Louise nods. Phil raises his eyebrows at Dan coolly.

“Dan?”

The idea of splitting up makes Dan's breath stick in his throat, but he nods too, and Phil flashes them a sudden smile, then darts down the corridor to the left, his baseball bat held easily in one long hand.  

Louise glares at Dan for a moment, her blue eyes hard.

"I don't trust you," she tells him coldly, and Dan raises his eyebrows, impassive.

"Nor I you," he replies, and they stare at each other for a moment. Then Louise's lips curve into a grim smile and she nods.

"Glad that's sorted then. Shall we?"

Dan nods, the corner of his mouth twitching up a little, and he doesn't trust Louise but he thinks that he could learn to like her. He thinks that in another life, in an alternate universe where the world went as it was meant to instead of falling to shit the way it did, they could have been best of friends.

Louise adjusts her grip on the handle of her machete and nods firmly, then sets off down the corridor, Dan at her heels. The musty beige carpeting muffles their footsteps and Dan's ears are pricked for any noises other than their own.

It's hot in the corridor, the air sticky and thick, and sweat is beginning to gather on Dan's skin, a combination of adrenaline and fear and shocking summer temperatures. He wishes it were autumn, although autumn brings winter and that's a whole different issue.

Louise stops at the end of the corridor, the lines of her body tense. Dan's hand is getting damp with sweat against the handle of his gun.

"I hear it," she breathes, and Dan listens hard. Sure enough, there are the slow shuffling footsteps that indicate the approach of one of the undead. "It's just one, I'll get it."

She steps forward into the next hallway, her machete at the ready, and Dan swallows the unease in his throat and slumps against the wall, waiting for her to come back. There's a grunt and the sound of metal slicing through flesh, then a thud.

"Got 'em," Louise calls, coming back around the corner. She wipes her blade on a peeling-up corner of carpet, then slides it back into its sheath. "Let's go find Phil." Dan nods and they set off back the way they came.

Dan can't shake the feeling that something is wrong, though, and he keeps looking back over his shoulder, but there's nothing.  _You're being an idiot_ , he tells himself, and keeps walking.

His shoelace comes undone and he ducks down to retie it, wrinkling his nose a little at the dried blood that has formed a stiff shell on the laces. He picks at it for a few seconds, shaking flecks of rusty brown onto the carpet.

As he stands up, something lopes out of the open door of the flat that Louise has just passed.

"Shit!" Dan yelps, because it's a zombie and Louise hasn't noticed it and there's just seconds before the thing pounces. "Louise duck!"

Fortunately Louise does as he says, dropping to the floor and rolling to the side just as the zombie lunges at her. Dan points his gun at the zombie's head and shoots, the recoil sending pain racing up his arm. The bullet chips the side of the zombie's skull, making it stumble sideways.

"Fuck," Dan spits, his jaw clenched as he leaps forward to finish the creature off. The butt of his gun smashes into the zombie's skull and bits of bone and brain fly into the air. The zombie collapses to the floor and Dan stomps on its skull once, hard, just to be sure. Blackish blood is oozing out of the zombie's body, along with an overwhelming smell of decay, and Dan just wants to get away from here.

"Thanks," Louise says quietly, standing up and wrinkling her nose in distaste at the zombie's inert form.

"Yeah," Dan replies. He moves to put his gun away and hisses in pain.

"You okay?" Louise asks, and Dan lets out a shaky breath, his jaw clenched.

"Think I popped some stitches again," he grits out. "Fucking hell." Louise bites her lip, then moves to Dan's uninjured side and tucks herself around him.

"Come on, I'll help you back to the flat. Keep that arm still, yeah, against your chest." Dan does as she says, cradling his left arm across his sternum and keeping his right arm slung over Louise's shoulders as they begin walking back to their little hideaway.

"You could have let that zombie eat me," she says as they approach the junction of corridors where they split up with Phil. "Why didn't you?"

Dan's arm is throbbing, but the bandages aren't turning scarlet and he can breathe a bit better now that the initial agony has subsided. Louise's question carves its way through the haze of pain and makes him hesitate.

"I dunno," he says finally. "Seemed like the only thing I could do. Wouldn't have been right to just let you die, would it?"

Louise is quiet for the rest of the walk towards the flat, so Dan doesn't say anything either. When they reach the beige door of Number 214, Louise lets go of him and they both slump against the corridor walls for a moment. Then Louise looks up at him, her eyes wide and startlingly blue.

"Thank you," she says, and Dan knows she means  _for saving my life_. He shrugs.

"You're okay," he tells her, and she nods.

"For now."

They stand in silence for a moment and Dan stares at the dust notes floating in the air. They move so slowly through the sunlight, it's almost as if they aren't there at all.

Louise moved to open the door, and that's when they hear the screaming.

"Put your weapons down and your hands up, I'm not playing about, I'll fucking shoot!"

It's PJ, and Dan feels his heart drop as adrenaline shoots through his veins in icy spikes.

"Stay here," Louise barks, and she turns and races down the corridor towards the stairs.

Dan stares after her, hesitant to disobey her at the risk of breaking the fragile strands of trust that have begun to form between them. But PJ's still shouting, and Louise is shouting now too, and Dan doesn't much fancy sitting here waiting for another zombie to come out of the woodwork.

"What's your name!" Dan hears PJ yell. "Why the fuck are you here!"

"Name's Chris!" the intruder shouts back, and Dan's heart leaps into his throat. "I'm not gonna fuckin' hurt you, man!"

Dan throws caution to the wind and hurtles down the staircase, ignoring the pain shooting up his arm. He knows that voice better than he knows his own, could recognise that Yorkshire accent in his sleep and on his deathbed.

He crashes into the lobby of the apartment complex and stops short, his heart going like the wings of a bird in a cage. PJ's got Chris kneeling on the floor at gunpoint, hands in the air. Louise has collected Chris's gun and belt of knives, leaving him completely disarmed. Chris looks worse for the wear, like he hasn't slept since Dan went missing, but there's a fire in his eyes that's always been there and that seems to be burning brighter than ever, fierce and almost manic.

"I told you to stay at the flat, Dan," Louise spits, and at the word Dan Chris whips his head around. Their eyes meet and Chris's jaw drops.

"Hey, mate," Dan says, trying for casual, but his stomach is fluttering with surprise and relief so his voice is a bit squeaky, and Chris lets out a bark of shocked laughter.

"What the bloody  _fuck_?" he says, disbelief cutting through his obvious exhaustion and fear.

"You know each other?" Louise asks, her eyes narrowed and her voice dripping with suspicion.

"Er, yeah," Dan tells her, trying to keep himself in check. All he wants is to leap forward and cling to Chris for as long as possible, but aware that he's at a dangerous precipice. One wrong word could get him and Chris killed. "We got split up the day Phil found me."

Chris shifts onto one knee and PJ releases the safety of the gun.

"Don't move," PJ says, all cool and casual, like this is an everyday situation. "I'm not afraid to shoot."

"Course," Chris says, sinking back into a kneeling position and keeping his hands in the air, and Dan has never been more relieved to see Chris keeping himself in check.

"What should we do with them, Peej?" Louise asks, her eyes sharp. "It's pretty obvious they planned this so they could get our supplies.

"What?" Dan spits incredulously. "You think we -  _what_?"

Louise raises her eyebrows at him, unimpressed. Dan's gaping at her like a fish, eyes wide and mouth open in disbelief.

"How could we have planned this?" he says, his voice going a bit pitchy with nerves and aggravation. "You think I'd nearly fucking  _die_  to get at the same shitey food and supplies we had at our place? You think I knew Phil would show up when he did? You think I'd do all that just for a few cans of black beans and a water purifier? Fucking hell, if we wanted to steal your shit we would have stolen it! But we don't and we didn't and we won't!" He's yelling at this point, and waving his arms for emphasis, and he can feel blood starting to ooze out of his wound again. The pain makes his breath catch in his chest.

"Dan, your arm," Chris says, and Dan glances at it. The bandage is bright red again.

"That happened fast," he mutters, then goes back to glaring at Louise, who is frowning heavily.

"We'll rebandage your arm yeah? Then you two can bunk out," PJ decides, lowering his gun and nodding at Chris, who stands up slowly, his arms still above his head. Dan lets out a slow breath and nods, then turns and staggers up the stairs. Chris, Louise, and PJ follow him, and it's strange to be the one leading for once.

Dan and Chris go into the flat so Dan can collect his clothes, as well as a few bandages from the bag that PJ left on the floor. The door shuts and neither of them move for a moment.

"God, Dan, what the hell," Chris breathes at last, and they fall together into the tightest hug of Dan's life. Chris smells of sweat and blood and rot and dirt and home, and he's too thin and his fingertips are digging into Dan's back, and Dan closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the embrace.

"I thought you were  _dead_  you absolute wanker, I thought you were fucking dead and it was my fault, we're never splitting up again, god I fucking hate you Dan," Chris mumbles into Dan's shoulder. They're both shaking a little, and Dan can feel tears threatening to spill. "I'm so fucking glad you're okay,  _fuck_."

"I know mate," Dan whispers, his voice trembling and small. "I know, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry."

They don't let go for a while, long minutes stretching on whilst they cling to each other, reveling in the knowledge that they are no longer alone.

There's a sharp rap of knuckles on the door and they break apart. Chris grabs Dan's little bundle of clothes and goes back out into the corridor, Dan at his heels. PJ and Louise are deep in conversation at the top of the stairs, heads bent together.

"Guess we'll be off then," Chris says, oddly cheerful, and he's got his arm slung around Dan's shoulders protectively. Dan leans into it, still not quite believing that Chris is actually here with him.

"Yeah," PJ agrees, nodding. He shoots a look at Louise, who hands Chris's weapons back to him.

"Cheers," Chris says jauntily. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet a little, buoyant, and Dan understands. He's incredibly happy to see Chris, but there's a part of him that really doesn't want to leave. It's not that he's safe here - there's not a place on the planet that's safe. It's more that this feels almost comfortable. Somehow, he feels that he fits with these people.

It's quite possible that he's deluding himself, that he's clutching onto thin trust and turning it into the illusion of a home, but then it's been two years since he felt safe the way he has the past two days.

"There's a window you can go out of over here," PJ says, leading Chris and Dan to the end of the lobby. The window is boarded over and hung with thick curtains to prevent intruders, human or otherwise. "Opens right onto the road." Dan nods. "Good luck."

"Thank you," Dan says fervently. "For everything."

PJ nods back, his green eyes solemn and his posture relaxed for once. He turns to move the barricade from the window and only has one board down before he spits out a " _fuck_!" and scrambles backwards. He pushes the board back into place and hurries away from the window, grabbing Dan and Chris by the elbows and pulling them along with him.

"What's going on?" Dan says, although he has a pretty good idea.

"Zombies, at least a dozen of 'em, and it's getting dark. Can't send you out," PJ mutters, his brow furrowed. Dan lets out a long, slow breath.

"Well, looks like that plan's out the window," Louise says grimly.

"Unlike us," Chris smirks, and Dan shoots him a glare. This is no time to be flippant.

"You're not funny," he mutters, and Chris squeezes Dan's hand gently.

"They can stay another night, I reckon?" PJ says, glancing over at Louise, who frowns. She looks at Dan and their eyes meet inadvertently. Hers are wide and suspicious and heavy with exhaustion and fear, but her mouth softens a little and she looks away.

"Yeah, okay," she agrees quietly, and Dan thinks that this is probably terrible for her. Seeing him be reunited with Chris after just two days, while her husband and daughter have been missing for nearly a week, must be torture.

Without another word, PJ turns and leads the three of them back upstairs. Their footsteps are heavy against the wooden staircase, echoing off the walls, and Dan's head is fuzzy with pain.

When they reach the flat, Louise disappears into the bedroom immediately, her body stiff with suppressed tears. Chris flops onto one of the overstuffed armchairs and looks around with a feigned air of indifference. Dan knows him too well though, knows he's impressed with the little home that's been set up here.

"Let me have a look at your arm then," PJ says as he locks the flat door. Dan nods and sits down on the mattress, then holds his arm out to PJ, who sits down next to him and carefully unwraps the bandages.

"Looks like only one of the stitches popped," he says, setting aside the bloody bandages and standing up. "I'm going to get water, stay still." He goes into the next room and Chris lets out a huff of laughter.

"He's a bit bossy, innit," he drawls. Dan raises his eyebrows.

"I'd be dead if it weren't for him," he says, and Chris's mouth tightens.

"I know," he replies quietly, and Dan lets it slide because this is how Chris copes, with cruel smirks and acidic jokes and sarcasm that pushes buttons. They all have to do something to stay human, to stay themselves, and Chris finds comfort and familiarity in insincerity.

They fall into silence,  _I'd be dead_ dancing through the space between their bodies. The lack of conversation is heavy and macabre and utterly unlike them.

"Sorry," Chris mumbles. "Just shocked I guess, can't believe you're alive."

"I know," Dan says softly. "I can't believe it either."

PJ comes back into the lounge with a bowl of water and a clean flannel and sits back down next to Dan, who proffers his arm to PJ.

"This might hurt," PJ warns, dipping the flannel into the water and holding it over the wound. Dan shrugs.

"Go for it."

PJ rubs gentle circles against the reddened skin around Dan's wound, wiping away the blood. Dan winces but doesn't say a word.

When PJ runs the flannel across the actual wound Dan lets out a hiss of pain, his jaw locked.

"Sorry," PJ mumbles, carrying on wiping away the blood. "Nearly done."

He drops the flannel into the bowl of water, then frowns at the gash in Dan's arm.

"I should probably put another stitch through there," he says. Dan nods bravely. "It's going to hurt."

"Yeah, well," Dan sighs, shrugging one shoulder. PJ's mouth twists into a wry grin and he grabs a suture and needle from his little canvas medical bag. Dan grits his teeth and looks away.

There's a terrible stinging pain and tears pop into Dan's eyes. His breathing is ragged and quick, sprinting straight into panic. He's always hated this sort of thing, doctors and stitches and pain; it's always made him wildly anxious, even when it was happening in a controlled, sanitized environment. And this is even worse, this dim dusty flat with this capable but untrained young man doing what is really an experienced doctor's job.

"Well done," PJ murmurs, tucking the needle and suture back into his bag. Dan lets the tears roll, figuring that in the apocalypse a little bit of crying is okay. His arm fucking  _hurts_.

"Thank you," he says shakily. PJ nods.

"You a doctor then?" Chris asks from his perch on the armchair. PJ sighs quietly.

"No. I was at uni for film production when everything." He pauses. "You know. But I was a lifeguard in the summers and we had to learn first aid and a lot of it is fairly self-explanatory." He shrugs. "More useful than a film degree now, anyway."

They fall into silence again, and someone in the distance outside someone lets out a horrible scream. PJ closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them and stands up.

"I'm going to check on Louise," he says, and walks into the next room. Dan slumps onto the mattress and closes his eyes wearily. Everything is overwhelming and he just wants to sleep.

He's woken up several hours later by PJ, who's prodding at his shoulder and saying "wake up" in a low, urgent voice, over and over again. Dan blinks blearily, squinting up through the dim flickering light of the candle PJ is holding.

"Wha's goin' on?" he slurs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"I need you to do roof checks, Louise is having a bad night and I need to do perimeter and Phil's still not back so I need you to go up to the roof and check that everything is secure and then come back down and tell me everything you've seen, yeah?" PJ says, his voice quiet but commanding. Dan sits up and nods, aware that this is a show of trust that he's done nothing to earn.

"Yeah," he whispers, stretching his arms above his head and standing up. PJ hands him a flashlight and his gun, then turns and leaves the flat. Dan follows him out into the corridor.

"Just go up the stairs until you reach the top floor," PJ says. "There's a door that goes into a rooftop storeroom, go in there and you'll be able to get onto the roof. Check to make sure everything's clear and secure, if you see any lights anywhere near here make sure to remember where they were, and whatever you do don't touch the fire escape." Dan nods and lifts the first two fingers of his left hand to his forehead in an odd sort of salute, then winces as the movement sends an ache up his arm.

"Brilliant. See you in half an hour or so then," PJ says, then turns and trots down the stairs. Dan tucks his gun into its holster, then pushes his fringe back and starts making his way quickly up to the roof, his footsteps echoing slightly against the walls of the stairwell.

The apartment building is ten stories tall, and by the time Dan reaches the final landing he's out of breath and a stitch is starting to ache in his side. He fights through it, pulling long inhales of oxygen in through his nose and out of his mouth, then looks around. The tenth floor looks much the same as the second, olive walls and beige carpeting and an air of despondence and decay that is emphasised by the weak light of his torch.

Dan looks around the corridor. He's never been in this part of the apartment complex, so he's not entirely sure where to go.

At the end of the corridor there's a discreet door, tan and metal and labeled "employee use only". Dan reckons that it's a good bet, so he approaches the door with his gun raised. Nothing jumps out at him, not even when he jiggles the doorknob, so he opens the door and hurries up the staircase behind it as quickly as he can. His torch throws strange shadows onto the walls and Dan shudders a little, swallowing down the involuntary feat that is springing into his throat.

The staircase leads to another door, which is hanging ajar, and Dan steps through it cautiously. He finds himself in a small, dark storeroom that smells of dust and damp, and there's another open door in front of him that leads directly to the roof. He steels himself, then walks outside.

The roof is a flat expanse of concrete, dotted with a several large plastic barrels that all seem to be connected to each other by pipes. Dan glances around the roof, dimly illuminated by the orange beam of his torch, and spots Phil's hunched-over form at the edge of the roof by a big brick chimney. He takes a slow breath, then approaches the edge of the roof.

"Hey," Phil says as he draws nearer.

"Hey."

Dan sits down a few feet away from Phil, keeping his legs away from the edge. His torch is glowing dimly between them and the stars above their heads are bright and distant and cold.

"This is where you dicked off to then?" Dan asks, and he sounds a bit abrasive but  _christ_ , so much has happened since he and Louise went down one corridor and Phil went down the other, and Dan's tired and his arm hurts and everything is overwhelming.

"Yeah," Phil replies simply. He sounds exhausted and so, so sad. Something in Dan's chest seems to slump.

"Chris showed up," he says, his voice soft. Phil glances over at him, the light from Dan's torch throwing his face into sharp relief and deep shadows.

"Chris your friend?" he asks, and he sounds confused. Dan nods. "And you're still here?"

The words should sound rude, but Phil's voice is so weary and small that it comes across as sad instead.

"Yeah," Dan says, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a pathetic imitation of a smile. "Can't get rid of me that fast, mate."

"I'm glad," Phil whispers, and those two words are heavy and dangerous and Dan thinks that if the sun were up they wouldn't be having this conversation at all. He definitely wouldn't be tempted to move closer, but it's dark and he's lonely and he's only known Phil for two and a half days but he feels safe with him. And he's drawn to this tired boy whose eyes are brighter than the sky is most days, drawn like metal to a magnet, and he can't pull away, even though he wants to.

They sit like that for a few more minutes, close enough to hear each other breathing, although they don't dare move to close the few centimetres of space between their knees. But Dan is painfully aware of time passing, and he knows that he needs to get back down to PJ and report that all's clear, so he stretches his back and stands up.

"Come on," he says, picking up his torch from the ground and dragging the beam of light across the roof. It's dark everywhere, no lights to be seen anywhere near them, and Dan feels the solitude like a pervasive presence in his chest. Phil looks up at him, the light from Dan's torch making his face look alien.

"What?"

"Let's go back downstairs. Inside. Whatever. Safer, yeah?"  _And you'll be with me._

Phil bites his lip, then sighs and looks up at the stars again. There are millions of them, brighter now in the cloudless sky than they've ever been, and the moon is a tiny silver fragment of itself.

"There's so many of them," Phil whispers, and Dan sinks down to sit next to him again.

"Yeah. Kinda makes me feel insignificant," Dan admits, and he doesn't know why he's saying this to Phil but it feels right. "All of this does."

There's a low underlayer of growling from the zombies that are shuffling about on the pavement below, but it's faint, only audible when Dan strains his ears. Mostly he hears silence, and the gentle pattern of Phil's inhales and exhales.

"Mm," Phil breathes, running a hand through his fringe and pushing it away from his forehead. Dan stares at the dim bulb of the torch, the light burning into his retinas. When he blinks spots of color dance across his vision. "Think there's anything else out there? Or are we it?"

Dan raises his eyebrows.

"What, like aliens?" he asks. Phil makes a small noise of assent and Dan snorts. "Reckon we have enough to deal with as it is without worrying about extraterrestrial life forms, don't you?"

Phil's mouth curves into a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, and Dan feels a strange flush of happiness at that.

"Let's go in then," Phil sighs, and he stands up and together they retreat into the apartment building.

-

Dan and Chris were only meant to stay one more night, but somehow the hours turn into days, and then weeks, and suddenly they've been living in the little flat with Phil and PJ and Louise for over a month and there's a strange sort of trust growing between the five of them, an agreement that it is easier to be alive together than apart. It's not real trust, not yet, but it's something, and Dan is quite sure that if they had all met Before, they would have been proper friends. As it is, their little alliance is enough.

Summer is drawing closer to its finish every day, the days getting shorter and the nights colder, and they all take turns going out into the city to gather supplies for winter. The Tesco down the road is somehow still full of cans, dented and old but still with some time left before their expiration dates, so every so often they go out in pairs to restock their food supplies. Dan isn't sure how it hasn't all been taken yet, but he doesn't ask.

It's an unusually cold day, the coldest day they've had in months. Dan guesses it might be somewhere around 5 degrees - he can see his breath on the air every time he exhales, faint wisps of white that fade away quickly when they come in contact with the sunlight. He and Phil are trotting down the road towards Tesco, matching pace with each other as they run. (They always seem to match pace, on patrol and out getting supplies and even just in everyday life in the little flat, and it scares Dan because his heart is beginning to refuse to match pace with his brain. His brain knows the risk of falling for bright eyes and sellotaped glasses, but his heart is a bit stupider than Dan would like.) They've each got an empty backpack on their backs and their weapons within easy reach, and Dan's arm has healed almost entirely, leaving just a bit of stiffness behind.

The streets are deserted apart from them, no sign of anyone alive or dead. Just an expanse of cement with weak morning sunlight shining through, painting everything pale grey. Dan glances over at Phil as they jog, watching the other boy's dark hair bounce with every step.

"Ready?" Phil pants as they slow to a stop outside the abandoned grocery store. Dan tugs up the waistband of the black jogging bottoms he nicked from a Topman they raided a week or so ago.

"Ready," he confirms, pulling out his brand-new switchblade (he pulled it off a body on a supplies run about a week ago, and it's proved itself useful - quieter than a gun, and functional for more than just killing) and fiddling with it, spinning it between his fingers. He's always been a fidgeter and old habits die hard. The apocalypse hasn't helped him kick any of them, unfortunately.

"Right," Phil says with a nod, tugging back the slats of wood that board up the entrance to the store. Dan ducks through, then reaches out and holds the board up so Phil can get inside as well.

The Tesco is huge and dim, illuminated only by the grey light coming through the windows high up near the ceiling, and it smells of damp and death, like most things do now. The aisles are littered with abandoned objects - notebooks and plastic bags and pens and toys, remnants of a life before the death of the world.

A DVD boxed set of The Walking Dead season 1 crunches under Dan's foot as he and Phil make their way towards the back of the store and he feels an odd rush of smugness at the irony.

Their stash of canned and boxed food is hidden in the staff toilets, of all places - it's a dingy little room with a yellowing porcelain toilet and sink and a cracked and spotted mirror that Dan avoids looking at - he's almost afraid of what he'll see. The pile of tins and boxes is dwindling, and as he and Phil grab boxes of noodles, tins of peaches, and packets of rice and stuff them into their bags, Dan realises how little there actually is left.

"We're nearly out of a load of this stuff," he points out, and Phil nods grimly.

"Yeah."

They don't speak for a while after that, just stack cans and sort boxes amidst the dust and the quiet, and it reminds Dan of his first job at ASDA, endless days of boredom and monotony and so many different types of noodles that all the brands and flavours started to blend together into a cardboard box blur. At least back then the chance of dying within the grocery store walls was significantly lower.

"There are things missing," Phil says suddenly, his body tense. He sets down the notebook that he was taking inventory in and counts the tinned fruit again. "Someone's been here."

Dan swallows hard, willing the nerves rising up inside him to go away, then asks, "what should we do?"

Phil bites his lip, his eyebrows knitting into a frown. He sighs, then tucks the notebook back into his backpack and swings the bag over his shoulder as he stands up.

"Let's have a look 'round the store, see what we can find," he says, and Dan nods, standing up and shuffling into his backpack, which is significantly heavier now that it's full of food.

They leave the bathroom cautiously, creeping through the employees-only area and out into the main store. It's brighter now, sunlight streaming through the windows onto the dust-coated shelves and peeling linoleum floor, and the silence is absolute except for the gentle tap of their Converse-clad feet as they walk.

The silence is absolute, that is, until something falls with a massive crash several aisles over, followed by a quickly-stifled cry of fear. Dan and Phil exchange wide-eyed glances, then leap into action in unison, swinging their weapons up to defend themselves as they slink towards the source of the noise.

There's shelves built into an alcove of the store, and someone has pulled wooden crates that used to hold bananas in front of the shelves to create a hideaway of sorts. Dan and Phil approach it slowly, gun and baseball bat poised to attack. Someone is making muffled whimpering noises from within the shadows of the hideout, and there's several empty tins laying about, which seems to have been the source of the crash.

"We know you're in there," Phil says, his voice cool and commanding. "Come out with your hands up, we're not afraid to shoot."

There's a moment of silence, and then a scratchy voice slides out from the shadows.

"Phil?"

Phil's mouth drops open and his eyes go wide. He moves forward a step and Dan can only watch, his pulse humming in his throat.

"Matt?" Phil says cautiously, leaning down a little to look into the darkness beneath the shelves, and Dan has no idea what's happening. "Shit, Matt, shit, shit." He looks paralyzed, half hunched over and staring at the hideaway, and then suddenly a tiny person with wildly messy blonde curls hurtles out from under the shelves and throws herself at Phil. His arms wrap around her little body instinctively, holding her tight to his chest, and Dan thinks he hears a sob wrench itself from Phil's throat.

"Phil," the hoarse voice says again, and a few of the crates tumble to the floor as a dark-haired man crawls out from behind them, looking worse for the wear. "Phil, oh my god."

Dan stares as the two men move towards each other. It's the sort of moment that should be filmed in slow motion with a joyful crescendo of music behind it, but instead it's fast and messy and the only soundtrack is the choked "you're alive" that falls from Phil's lips. The man's fingers grip the back of Phil's shirt so tight they turn white at the tips, and the tiny blond child between them has her head tucked under Phil's chin.

They don't break apart for several long moments and Dan feels like he's watching something private, something he doesn't have a right to see.

"Who's that?" the dark-haired man asks, tilting his chin towards Dan as he and Phil let go of each other.

"Name's Dan. We rescued him, he's been with us a month or so," Phil says, his eyes wide and his hand running absently across the little girl's back. She sighs contentedly and nuzzles closer to Phil's chest, wrapping her arms tighter around his neck, and Phil reaches up to wipe something away from his cheek. His eyes are glistening a bit.

"Jesus, has it been a month?" the man - Matt, Dan remembers - asks, his heavy eyebrows knitted together in alarm.

"Somewhere around there," Phil confirms, and Matt drops his head to his hands for a few seconds.

"Jesus. Is Lou okay?"

And oh, of course. This is Louise's husband and their daughter, and they've been missing since before Phil rescued Dan, and Dan is an idiot to not have realised that.

"Er." Phil pauses. "She's held herself together."

"Oh, god," Matt whispers. He looks at Phil with wide, desperate eyes. "I tried so hard to get back, I did, but -"

"Hey, it's okay," Phil says, straightening his back and holding out his hand to help Matt stand up. "You're alive, we're all alive, let's go home."

-

The reunion between PJ, Matt, and the little girl (Dan still hasn't learned her name) happens as soon as they walk through the doors of the apartment building, and when PJ sees Matt he lets out a strangled cry and runs straight at him. Their bodies collide with a heavy thud and they stand in the middle of the lobby, a swaying pillar of tangled limbs and shuddering breaths. The blonde girl is perched on Phil's shoulders and she keeps looking around the lobby with eyes wide as saucers.

"Mummy?" she finally says, her voice high and clear as a bell, and Matt lets out a sob. PJ pulls away and jogs to the stairs, then bellows, "Louise! Come quick!"

A door opens and shuts upstairs and the sound of hurried footsteps precedes Louise's arrival to the lobby. When she reaches the foot of the stairs she looks up and stops short, all the color draining from her face. No one says a word for several long moments. Then there's a squeal of pure, unadulterated joy from atop Phil's shoulders.

"Mummy!"

Phil ducks down and sets the little girl on the floor and she scrambles across the lobby at breakneck speed towards Louise, who is standing frozen in place, her eyes open wide and her mouth open wider, the definition of shock.

"Darcy," she whispers, dropping to her knees and opening her arms, and the child crashes into her chest and Dan doesn't think he's ever seen anything more beautiful.

He doesn't think he's ever seen anything more beautiful, that is, until he looks over at Phil, who's watching as the little family is reunited with an expression of such fondness and love on his face that it makes Dan's chest ache a little.

PJ backs away from Louise and her family, gesturing at Dan and Phil to come upstairs with him.

"Give them a bit of privacy," he explains, and Dan nods. This is not his joy to share.

-

That night is the first night that Louise's face doesn't crumple into sobs while they eat slightly stale Ramen noodles and tinned mandarin oranges for dinner. Instead, she holds her tiny daughter in her lap and clutches Matt's hand tightly, sacrificing the use of her dominant hand in favor of reassuring herself that her husband is there. No one says much, but the joy is palpable in the air between them all. Louise is glowing with it.

After they finish eating, Chris and PJ go downstairs to do perimeter checks, while Dan and Phil go up to check the roof. The four of them agree to give Matt and Louise a bit of privacy, so Dan says, "it's not a bad night, we can hang out on the roof a bit?" They all murmur in agreement, then go their separate ways.

Roof checks are the work of a moment for Dan and Phil, they always are, and once they're sure that no one seems to be camping out on the fire escape or inhabiting any of the apartment buildings around them, they settle down in their usual place between the chimney and the edge of the roof to wait for Chris and PJ. Phil turns off his torch and leaves them illuminated by the surprising brightness of the moon.

"This is the best part," Dan says after a few minutes of them staring up at the stars in silence. "All the lights being gone."

"Yeah," Phil breathes. The wind picks up for a moment, making Dan shiver, and they move closer together without really thinking about it. Dan's skin feels stretched tight with how close they are and how breathtakingly beautiful Phil looks in the silvery moonlight.

"I've always loved space," Phil continues after a few moments. Dan nods. "You said a while ago that it made you feel insignificant, but it's never done for me. It makes me think there's something more, maybe. More than all this." He gestures at the darkness of the city surrounding them, then shrugs. "Dunno why. Maybe because like, each star looks so small and dim when you look at them like this but really they're these huge cosmic beings that burn so bright and matter so much and, I dunno, maybe we're the same way."

Dan's heart is tumbling in his chest and he's done for, he's absolutely fucked.

"Philosophical," he mumbles, and Phil lets out a little huff of laughter.

"I guess."

The door to the storeroom opens and Chris and PJ walk over to join them at their little perch. Chris shuts off his torch and they're lit up only by moonlight again, and it will never stop surprising Dan how bright the moon can be when there's no light pollution interfering.

The four of them sit in silence for a long while, enjoying the cool night and the peace and the residual happiness of Louise and Matt and Darcy's reunion. Dan's knee is touching Phil's and he can feel it all over his body and this is dangerous but he can't really bring himself to care because tonight is so good. And the good can't last, but it's here now, and Dan is determined to enjoy it while he can.

The more he thinks about it, the more he realises how much of a Phil-like thought that is, but it's nice, and he's beginning to understand why Phil has refused to let pessimism set in.

“What do you miss?” PJ asks suddenly. Dan flinches. That's a horrible question to ask, here at the end of the world. He misses everything.

“Mate,” Chris says reproachfully. PJ's eyes go wide.

“Not, like, not people! Nothing like that. Not things that hurt. Just, small things. Like. I miss films. And my trampoline. And video games.”

None of them say anything for a minute. It's peaceful up on the roof, quiet, and the moon is huge and gorgeous, painting the buildings around them silver and white and ethereal.

"Showers,” Chris decides. They all make vehement noises of agreement. “Hot showers, cold showers, wanking in showers. Showers.”

“Music,” Dan says quietly. “Just putting headphones into your ears and being able to block out the world without getting fucking eaten.” Phil nods.

“What about you, Phil?” PJ asks. Phil smiles a little.

“Haribo. And takeaway Chinese food. And going to the cinema.” He's quiet for a few seconds, than carries on. "Going on dates. Open bars. Hot chocolate. Concerts. Half off sales at Topman."

Something bittersweet curls in Dan's stomach as Phil speaks. He misses all that too, all those things he took for granted just two years ago. It's strange, looking back at it all.

“Mad that it's been two years,” Chris says, kicking his legs into the open air. Dan nods. His feet are dangling out over the side of the roof and it's a weird feeling, like any minute he could jump. And he won't, obviously, but he could.

“Yeah,” PJ agrees quietly. “Feels like forever, doesn't it?”

Dan lets out a soft exhale. Thinking about time scares the hell out of him. It makes him feel like everything is expanding in his chest and he doesn't have room for anything more.

Someone in the near distance screams, a long wordless cry for help, and Dan shouldn't be affected by that anymore but he is. It makes him feel sick to his stomach.

The screaming stops abruptly and they all flinch a little.

“Poor bastard,” Chris says fervently. Phil shifts a little, uncomfortable, and his hand brushes against Dan's and there go those stupid sparks again, the flipping-over of his heart, and Dan hates himself for feeling this. There is no time for a schoolboy crush at the end of the world.

Phil looks over at him and smiles gently, his eyes endlessly fond behind his glasses, and if things were different Dan would lean forward and kiss him. As it is, all he allows himself to do is smile back.

-

Louise and Darcy sleep in the next morning, curled around each other in the bedroom, and Dan has never seen happiness take such a physical form. It's incredible, really, how sudden the general mood in the flat has shifted.

Matt drops a bomb over breakfast though, when Louise and Darcy are still fast asleep, so it's just Dan, Phil, Chris, and PJ who hear the reason why it took a month for Matt and Darcy to get back to the flat.

"Cannibals," Matt says, and his mouth is a tight line. The silence that falls is heavy and sharp.

"Cannibals," PJ repeats, and Chris follows with a "you're fucking joking."

"I wish I was," Matt says grimly. "They caught us down by the river, Peej, you remember we were there to get rocks to hold your purifier thing down in the wind, and they came up behind us and I didn't have any choice but to go with them, it was all my fault." He picks at a splinter in the top of the dining table, then hisses as it pokes through the skin of his finger. As he pries the splinter out, he carries on with his tale. "They took us to the Palace of Westminster. That's where they were living, bloody Westminster Hall. Cannibals in the house of British law, absolutely mad. Anyway, it didn't seem too terrible at first, believe it or not, there were a few others there like us, and maybe twenty of them? And they had loads of food and I. I wanted to come back here and bring you lot there, it seemed so. Christ." He stares hard at his hands, refusing to look up. "Maybe a week later was when I got a really bad feeling? They wouldn't let me leave, just kept saying soon, but every night people kept disappearing, no explanation, so one night I pretended to be asleep and I. I saw them take this woman from where she was sleeping and just. They offed her right there, strangled her, and I knew we had to get out. We booked it the next week, as soon as I sorted out how their guard and patrol schedule worked. Didn't even bother to get any of my things, just grabbed Darcy and ran as soon as they left the hall. Nearly got caught but we made it."

He stops talking and looks up, his eyes meeting Dan's directly, and they're the eyes of a haunted man.

"They were going to eat us. Like we were cows or something. I didn't think it would ever come to that."

"Guess the apocalypse brings out the worst in people," Chris says, and they all let out small, bitter huffs of laughter.

"Guess so," Matt replies, then gives a full-body shiver. "Anyway, that was, what, two weeks? And the rest of the time was me trying to get myself and Darcy back alive. There are so many zombies out there. Can't believe we're not dead."

Dan knew that already, that the number of zombies in the city was increasing faster than it had done in ages, but the confirmation from an outside source makes his heart sink like a stone.

"What should we do?" Chris asks, and they all sit in tense silence for a moment. Dan worries his lower lips between his teeth, then sighs.

"We have to leave the city," he says quietly, and his words cut through the air. "It's not safe anymore. Zombie hordes and cannibals, no fucking way."

"Yeah," PJ agrees after a long minute. "Yeah, we have to go."

Louise wakes up then, comes out of the bedroom with Darcy sleep-rumpled and smiling in her arms, and Dan's heart aches for this tiny child who will never know anything but hardship in her life. PJ and Matt exchange glances and Matt nods, then stands up and leads Louise back into the bedroom to tell her what happened to him and what they're going to have to do now.

"Checks and then packing?" PJ suggests, and Dan and Phil and Chris all nod and stand up as one.

Chris and PJ check the perimeter and the barricades, as usual, and Dan and Phil make the trek up to the roof for the bird's-eye view of the city surrounding them. All seems to be well until Dan goes to the western edge of the roof and he sees it.

"Phil," he says, and then louder, "Phil!"

"What?" Phil asks, rushing to Dan's side, and Dan points. "Oh christ."

It's a horde moving towards the apartment complex, at least twenty figures, probably more like thirty, and what is more terrifying is that none of them are zombies.

Every single one of the people in the crowd is alive and holding a gun and Dan's whole body is screaming danger and there is no doubt in his mind that this is the group who captured Matt and Darcy, and that they're here for more. Somehow they managed to track Matt down and follow him here and they're all fucking doomed.

"We have to tell the others," Phil says, and they turn and sprint downstairs to the flat.

They stay in pace, somehow, on their way down the stairs, and Dan feels sick to his stomach because everything is so fragile and he has so much to live for now (Chris and PJ and Louise and this beautiful black-haired blue-eyed boy with his starry smiles and space metaphors and effervescent hope) and he doesn't want to die.

They crash into the flat, startling Louise, who's gathering things up in the lounge and putting them in methodical piles. She yelps and stares up at them with wary eyes.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Where's PJ?" Dan demands, and he's being rude but there's no time for manners.

"Right here," PJ says from behind them, and Dan and Phil whip around. "What's wrong?"

"They're coming," Dan spits out. "The ones who had Matt and Darcy."

No one says anything - they just stare at each other in dismay. Dan feels hopelessness curling in his stomach and he looks down at the toes of his shoes, battered and dirty and worn smooth.

“What if we just kill them,” he suggests after a long stretch of maudlin silence. His voice is flat and he hates that he's suggesting this but something has to be done. He won't lose someone else the way he lost Cat. “Just shoot them all in the night. Or now, even. We know this building better than they ever could. They're trying to kill us, might as well kill them before they shoot our heads in.”

There's another heavy silence and Dan can feel his words curdling in the air. He doesn't want to kill people if he doesn't have to, but he thinks this might be necessary.

“Dan's right,” Chris says very quietly. “It's them or us, innit?” Louise slumps forward, burying her face in her hands. Dan swallows past the lump in his throat and looks over at Phil, who's frowning hard, his hand stuck into his pocket at an awkward angle the way it always is when he's thinking hard.

PJ sighs and nods.

“Yeah. Them or us.”

Dan feels a swell of relief. If PJ's on board then Phil, Louise, and Matt will probably follow suit. They've never had a proper discussion about it, but they all subtly recognise PJ as their little group's leader. He's the cleverest and the best at making decisions. It makes sense for him to be in charge. Dan's just grateful he's not the one having to call the shots. He's perfectly willing to leave that to PJ.

“That's not right,” Phil says, and fuck. PJ's the leader but Phil's the one whose moral compass is still the most intact, and Dan wonders why that is. He wonders what it is in Phil's brain, in Phil's heart, that makes him still able to believe in people, to stand by the concepts of second chances and forgiveness. “We can't just kill them in cold blood, that makes us as bad as them.”

Dan snorts bitterly, a sudden anger rising in his chest.

“As bad as them, are you fucking joking? They're going to kill us just because they can, Phil, they're going to tie us up and take our shit and kill us one by one, slowly and painfully and they'll fucking laugh about it, alright? They'll laugh as they kill you and the last thing you'll ever see or hear is their ugly mugs telling you what they're going to do to your body once you've finally fucking kicked it, and I'll have to watch!” He's shaking with fury but his voice is surprisingly steady, low and hard and cold in his throat. Nothing exists but him and Phil and the icicles of anger and fear in his bloodstream.

Phil stares at him, eyes wide and sad, and Dan feels something inside him crumple. He sinks down to the floor and buries his head in his hands.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, who am I?”

And there's just not an easy answer to that at the end of the world.

They hear shouting, a dull roar of people thirsting for blood, and Phil takes a deep shuddering breath.

"You're right, Dan. Them or us."

-

They decide to strike from the roof using Molotov cocktails PJ whips up using cleaning chemicals he found several weeks ago in a broom closet, and it's a cowardly way to kill someone but at least this way Dan and his friends - because they're not just an alliance anymore, they're friends, and it would be absurd to call them anything less than that - have a fairly high chance of picking all of the cannibals off before they figure out how to get into the apartment building. PJ and Matt lead the way up to the roof, closely followed by Dan, Phil, Darcy, and Louise. Matt had tried to convince Louise to stay in the flat, but Louise had put her foot down.

"Don't be daft, Baldy, I lost you once," she'd said firmly, never once looking away from her husband's face. "I'm not going to lose you again."

And Dan understands. He thinks that if he's going to die, he'd rather go down fighting next to the people he loves than alone.

Chris throws the first Molotov as soon as the horde gets close, and then chaos reigns. Gunshots whistle through the air and Louise pulls Darcy to the centre of the roof, away from the fighting. Dan and Phil and Chris and Matt and PJ throw bottle after bottle, and each one explodes on the street below and sends body parts flying. The cannibals shoot at them but their angle is terrible and somehow luck is on Dan's side and then Phil hits Dan's arm and points. Dan follows Phil's finger and sees what Phil noticed, then lets out a shout of triumphant laughter.

"Zombies!" he crows, and he's never been so happy to see a horde of the undead.

The zombies make short work of the remaining cannibals, then circle the street where the carnage took place. All the adrenaline leaves Dan in a rush and he sinks to the ground, the weight of what he's done, how many people he's just killed, hitting him like a brick. Phil sits down next to him and takes his hand and Dan doesn't feel human, really, but the contact helps a little.

"We have to leave as soon as it gets light tomorrow morning," PJ says. They all nod in agreement. PJ, Matt, and Chris stand up, but Dan isn't sure he can move yet. He's still shaky from the stress of the day and the adrenaline rush of the battle.

"Want to stay up here for a bit?" Phil asks gently, and Dan nods. PJ and the rest go back inside, leaving Dan and Phil alone on the roof. The sun is beginning to set, bathing everything in a beautiful orangey-golden light, and Phil is still holding Dan's hand.

They move to their spot next to the chimney, their feet dangling off the edge, and their fingers stay intertwined, Dan's left hand in Phil's right. He wonders if that's symbolic, if by linking their dominant hands they are making themselves more vulnerable to the feelings that are rising up and crashing in massive, overwhelming waves in Dan's chest. Phil's hands are long and elegant and strong and his skin is cool and Dan wants them everywhere, wants them to be his. Wants Phil to be his.

But this is the apocalypse and it is very possible that someday soon one of them will die. It's possible that one of them will have to pull the trigger.

"I'm sorry," Dan says, shifting his body a little so the side of his thigh is pressed against Phil's. "For screaming at you like that earlier."

"Who was it?" Phil asks after a moment, and there's a long, terrible, drawn-out silence that makes Dan's chest ache.

He takes a slow breath, then closes his eyes and begins to speak.

"Her name was Cat. Catherine, but everybody called her Cat. And she was American, and brilliant and funny and the kindest person I've ever met, and she had two dogs who drove me absolutely fucking mental. And she died because of me." Phil doesn't say anything and Dan is grateful for that. There's nothing Phil could say. "We met our first night at uni because we were in the same halls and everyone had gone out to drink except for us, and we both thought we were alone in the flat and I was having a cup of tea in the kitchen and she scared the shit out of me. And then we just clicked, you know? The way people do." The way you and I did, he almost says, but he bites the words back. "And we got a flat together the next year, the two of us and Chris, and she was my best friend. The first best friend I ever had."

The wind is cool on Dan's face, ruffling his hair and making the curls tumble forward onto his forehead. He reaches up and pushes them away, his fingers getting snarled in the tangles for a moment.

"It was my turn on watch duty, right, and this was way back when there were people looting still. London stayed quite crowded for a while, do you remember? And Cat and Chris and I were holed up in this tiny flat on Baker Street, right near Portman Square. Dunno why we picked there, t'be honest. Anyway, we were on the ground floor, which is probably the only reason Chris and I are still alive, we wouldn't have managed to get away otherwise, and these massive blokes came in when I dozed off during my watch. And I woke up first but I didn't really have a weapon at the time, just a kitchen knife, and they were like. Really fucking massive. And there were six of them and three of us and Cat woke up and saw them and tried to talk them out of hurting us and -" Dan's voice cracks and out of the corner of his eye he can see Phil staring at him from behind his glasses, eyes wide and sad and gentle blue.

"And they shot her. Right in the skull. No reason. Just because they could. And they would have done the same to Chris and me except a bunch of zombies came in right then and we booked it while they took the zombies out." Dan swallows hard, grimacing at the burning taste of bile in his throat. "We never went back to like. Bury her or anything. We just left her." Dan's chest is tight. Phil is quiet next to him, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

"I'd never forgive myself if that happened to you," Dan says, his voice just barely ghosting past his lips, and in his peripheral he sees Phil's jaw clench.

"You can't say that, Dan," Phil mutters, picking at the peeling rubber toe of his Converse. Dan closes his eyes and ignores how they're stinging, concentrates on breathing slow and steady through his nose.

"I know."

He doesn't apologise because apologies are meaningless now. Most things, he thinks, are beginning to be meaningless. Because sure, the birds still sing and the wind still blows and the sun still rises and sets in all its technicoloured glory, but what's the point when all that beauty is eclipsed by constant terror and the knowledge that no matter how fast you run, someday the undead will catch up?

He breathes out shakily and tilts his head up to look at the dark indigo zenith of the sky, bleeding into bright oranges and a red thicker than blood. The underbellies of the clouds above Dan's head are mottled pink and purple, and to the east there are a few brave stars poking out from the darkening sky.

"What's the point, d'you think?" he says quietly, his words floating away towards the sunset. He rests the back of his head against the side of the chimney, the bricks still warm from the heat of the day, and runs his fingers absently across the seam of his jeans.

"Like, why did this happen?" Phil asks, pushing back his fringe a little. Dan blinks slowly.

"Yeah. Wasn't the world shitty enough?" he says, a little bitter. Phil huffs out a little laugh.

"This is a very different sort of shitty," he says with a shrug. "But it's not all bad." Dan snorts derisively. "It's not. Wouldn't have met you, otherwise."

Dan's heart does that thing where it feels like it's flipping over into his stomach and he closes his eyes again.

"Do you think we would have been friends Before?" he asks after a few minutes. The sun is nearly gone now, leaving London in shadows, and the temperature is dropping steadily. Autumn is here for good now, hitting hard with rain and wind and nights that require extra blankets, and Dan is trying valiantly not to worry about how difficult winter will be.

"Definitely," Phil says confidently. Dan presses his lips together in a tight line.

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah. Can you imagine, us being friends Before? MarioKart tournaments and takeaway food and 2 am scrabble games?" Dan cracks a smile without even meaning to do so.

"Reckon we'd've been flatmates?"

"Reckon we would've been everything."

And then they're kissing and Phil's lips are soft and plush against Dan's and his hands are in Dan's hair and against the small of his back and Dan is overwhelmed by everything. He can't really breathe and his brain is short-circuiting and his heart is going like a jackhammer, fast enough and frantic enough to nearly hurt, and he can't get enough of the way Phil's tongue is twining around his like this is the last thing either of them will ever do on this earth.

"Oh fuck," he whispers when they break apart to breathe, and Phil's eyes are suspiciously shiny behind his sellotaped glasses. "Oh fuck, what are we doing?"

Phil takes Dan's face in his hands and looks him right in the eye.

"All we can."

-

Their bags are packed and they have a plan - south to Brighton, away from London at first light - and all that's left is to get enough sleep that they won't exhaust themselves too quickly as they walk south. And Dan is standing in the lounge with six other people who have somehow become a family to him and he is afraid of the future, he probably always will be, but Phil's hand is wrapped around his and Chris has his arm slung around Dan's shoulder and they're burning a bunch of Louise's scented candles as a last hurrah in the place that has been their safe haven for so long.

"Let's go to bed then," Louise says, and PJ nods.

"Final checks?" Chris asks, and PJ nods again.

Chris and PJ take perimeter and Dan and Phil go to the roof, just the way they always have, and once they make sure no zombies have found their way onto the fire escape they sit down in their usual spot and lock their fingers together and Dan tries to count the stars.

He gets to fourteen before he gives up and leans his head on Phil's shoulder.

"South, then," he says quietly, and he can feel Phil nodding.

"Never been to Brighton," Phil murmurs. Dan smiles.

"I did once. It was lovely, the sea and the shore and everything." It feels like another life entirely, one that doesn't really belong to him.

"It'll be hard, getting there," Phil sighs, and Dan nods.

"But it'll be worth it," he says. "We'll find a little house with a garden and a well and no zombies anywhere and we'll live there forever, the seven of us, and it'll be brilliant." He's lying of course, painting pretty pictures that will never come true, but it's nice to pretend. "We'll have a perfect life and we'll die of old age in the same little house and we'll be together like we deserve and none of us will ever get bitten."

“Would you kill me? If you had to?” Phil asks after a few moments, because pretending is nice but this is real life. Dan lets out a long breath and stares at the darkness of the horizon. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

“Dan. Would you kill me.”

“What, now?” Dan snaps, because playing dumb is easier than giving Phil a proper answer. This is why you can't get attached to anyone, he thinks. Because you will die, or they will die, and because you might have to kill them.

He remembers soft eyes and lush brown hair, remembers the splatter of red and the ringing in his ears, and he feels like he's going to be sick. Killing zombies on the streets, that's different. That's protecting his turf and defending his life, and they're monsters, they're not people. Dan refuses to see them as the people they used to be.

He's not sure if he'd be able to see Phil as a monster.

“Dan,” Phil says, and his voice is thin and sad and insistent, and Dan watches a shooting star flash across the utter darkness of the sky and he has never felt so small.

“Of course I would,” he mumbles. “You know I would.”

Phil nods and they sit in silence for a little while. Everything is so much, Dan thinks. And the city's being overrun again and they're leaving as soon as it's light, leaving this safe little corner of the world that they've inhabited for so long. Only a few months, really, but the fragile illusion of safety has stretched on and on.

“And me?” Dan asks. Phil's mouth goes tight. “Would you kill me?”

“Don't say that,” Phil says.

“You said it.”

“I know.”

They lapse into silence again, and Phil's fingers are cold where they're brushing against Dan's. Dan wonders if they would have fallen into each other like this in real life, if they would have ever crossed paths, or if this vivid spark of emotions (as good or bad as those emotions might be) would only have been possible because of the virus and the accident and Dan tripping over his own feet.

“Dan,” Phil says quietly, and Dan looks over at him. Phil's eyes are wide and sad as he nods.

“Of course I'd shoot you,” he says, and he leans in, kisses Dan hard, their teeth knocking together, and it hurts but so does everything else in this stupid godforsaken world.

Dan's lips are chapped and Phil's taste like salt and there's a voice in Dan's head that sounds just like his own as it says  _don't you fucking dare Dan Howell_ but there's a tug in his chest as their lips collide that is stronger than any worry or fear.

“Of course I would.”

Their fingers are intertwined and the stars are tiny pinpricks in the sky but Phil's words about everyone being a cosmic entity are ringing in Dan's brain. And he is in love, he thinks, and there is nothing more stupid at the end of the world, but there is also nothing more beautiful.

It's stupid, and reckless, and a reason to fight. So he'll carry on fighting. Not for the cure, or for posterity, but for himself, and for the little family he has somehow become a part of, and most of all for Phil.


End file.
